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OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


ALARUMS  &"  EXCURSIONS 


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ALARUMS   AND 
EXCURSIONS 


BY 


JAMES   AGATE 

AUTHOR   OF 
"  RESPONSIBILITV" 


Ah  !  je  vous  reconnais,  tous  mes  vieux  ennemis  ! 

Le  Mensonge  ?    Tiens,  tiens  !     Ha  !  ha  !  les  Compromis, 

Les  Prejuges,  les  Lachetes  !  .  .   .  Que  je  pactise? 

Jamais,  jamais  !     Ah  !  te  voila,  toi,  la  Sottise  ! 

Je  sais  bien  qu'k  la  fin  vous  me  mettrez  a  bas  ; 

N'importe  :  je  me  bats  !  je  me  bats  !  je  me  bats  ! 

(Cyrano  fait  des  mottlincts  immenses) 

Rostand. 


NEW   YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


Printed  in  Great  Britain  bt  the  Riverside  Press    Limited 
Edinburgh 


TO 
C.  E.  MONTAGUE  A  ^  /^ 


Contents 

A  Cartel  to  Modesty      . 

The  Decay  of  Criticism 

Sarah  Bernhardt.     A  Postscript 

Big  Pugs  and  Little 

Swan  and  Dragon- Fly  . 

A  Note  on  Repertory    . 

Cackle  and  'Osses 

The  Art  of  the  Guitrys 

A  View  of  "  The  Beggar's  Opera  " 

An  Evening  at  Collins's 

Incidental  Music  and  Some  Shakespeare 
Vesta  Ave  Atque  Vale  . 

Charlie  Chaplin  . 

Heartbreak  Shaw 

Scaramouch  in  Seven  Dials    . 

The  Hound  of  Drinkwater 

A  Point  of  Style  . 

Hippocampelephantocamelos  . 

For  the  Purposes  of  Revenue 

A  Happy  Commentator 


Page 

9 

13 

34 
62 

75 

81 

102 

^33 

139 

153 

165 
174 

179 

187 

193 
199 
205 
21 1 
224 

259 


A  Cartel  to  Modesty 

Ham.  Then  saw  you  not  his  face  ? 
HOR.  O,  yes,  my  lord  ;  he  wore  his  beaver  up. 
Hamlet^  Act  i.,  so.  2. 

HOW  many  things  are  there," says  Verulam, 
"which  a  man  cannot,  with  any  face  or 
comeliness,  say  or  do  himself!"  "It 
has  often  been  remarked,"  echoes  Professor 
Raleigh,  "how  few  are  the  story-tellers  who  can 
introduce  themselves,  so  much  as  by  a  passing  re- 
flection or  sentiment,  without  a  discordant  effect." 
Now  I,  the  meanest  of  guests  at  the  table  of  the 
rich,  holding  out  promise  of  entertainment  that  I 
may  dine,  make  bold  to  blame  the  host  who  should 
deprive  me  of  the  string  upon  which  I  harp  best. 
What  more  fittingly  becomes  the  critic,  recount- 
ing after  dinner  the  story  of  his  likes  and  dislikes, 
than  his  challenging  "  I  want  this,"  and  "  I  won't 
have  that "  ?  There  is  no  mock-humility  about 
the  great  in  this  line.  It  is  not  the  modesty 
of  Lamb,  the  bated  breath  of  Hazlitt  nor  the 
whispering  humbleness  of  Leigh  Hunt  which  are 
the  strength  of  these  authors.  Shyness  is  the 
small  change  of  their  agreeableness.  And  yet 
I  would  not  wish  to  have  seen  these  egoists  in 
the  flesh.  Neither  do  I  long  to  behold,  bodily, 
their  successors  of  to-day.  These,  too,  shall  be 
the  magnificent  selves  of  their  writings.  The 
peacockery  1  of  that  prince  of  dilettanti,  Mr  Max 
Beerbohm — let  me  have  no  pretence  of  intimacy 
—  has    always    called    to    mind    the    burnished, 

1  I  confess  to  long  consideration  of  this  word  and  that  for  six  months 
"coxcombry,"  in  the  Maxian  sense,  stood  in  its  place,  to  he  softened  after 
one  more  reading  of  William  and  Mary,  perhaps  the  most  affecting  and 
most  beautifid,  certainly  the  simplest,  short  story  in  the  English  language. 

9 


Alarums  and  Excursions 

dandiacal    little   fellow  who,  in   the    bootmaker's 
show-case,  enthuses  over  Meltonian  boot-polish. 
And   in   that  configuration   of  him   I   would   die. 
Once  in  the  theatre  I  sat  next  to  a  famous  critic, 
revered    from    childhood,   to    find    that    he    slept 
throughout  a    French    comedy  of  some  sparkle. 
In    the    intervals,   during  which    the   great   man 
stirred     to    wakefulness,    I    would    have    sought 
speech  but  for  the  fear  of  interrupting  a  scholarly 
re-perusal  of  The  Decline  and  Fall.     Once  I  was 
placed  next  to  Mr  Shaw,  and  lo,  instead  of  the 
fire-eater,  a  kindly  gentleman  gravely  a-twinkle, 
perilously  like   the   "bearded   lady  '   of   Rodin's 
effigy.      I    go   in   fear  of   meeting    Mr   Walkley, 
whose  prose  so  dazzles  that  it  may  only  be  read 
through   smoked   glasses,    lest  the  spoken   word 
prove  less  than  unbearable.      I  am  in  terror  lest 
proximity   reduce    the    girth   of   Mr    Chesterton. 
"  It  is  strange,"  muses  M.  France's  immortal  dog, 
"  how  as  objects  approach  I  get  smaller,  and  as 
they  recede  I  get  bigger."  ^     It  would  be  a  terrible 
disillusion   for  the   Riquet  in  us  to  find  that  as 
Mr  Chesterton  drew  near  we  did  not  grow  less. 
I   have  never  been   one   to   suffer   mortification  ; 
determined  always  that  great  men  shall  be  of  the 
stature  of  their  works.      It  has  been  my  privilege 
to  escape  contact  with  the  important  of  this  earth. 
Once,  at  the  opening  of  the  Jubilee  Exhibition,  I 
trespassed  to  within  two  paces  of  a  Stout  Gentle- 
man and  his  Lady.    As  a  small  boy  exploring  the 
House  of  Commons,  I  accidentally  butted  into  Mr 

»  Adapted. 
lO 


A  Cartel  to  Modesty 

Labouchere.  I  have  survived  an  over  on  the  sands 
from  Dr  Grace.  At  Olympia  I  have  stumbled 
over  the  legs  of  Mr  Joseph  Beckett.  Unwillingly 
was  I  presented  to  a  Helen  of  the  boards  whose 
beauty  was  to  youthful  eyes,  oh,  ever  so  much 
more  than  fabled  barks.  Once  I  met  R^jane, 
and  found  her  a  competent  body  with  no  halo  of 
artistry.  ...  It  had  been  wiser  to  refrain  from 
these  encounters,  so  true  is  it  that  "the  manna 
of  greatness  may  be  lost  in  the  leaven  of  habit." 

For  as  politicians  have  their  public  and  their 
private  codes  of  honour,  so  writers  have  their 
public  and  their  private  personalities.  It  was 
objected  of  Sir  Isaac  Newton  and  Mr  Locke 
that  "  beyond  their  contents  there  is  nothing 
personally  interesting  in  the  men."  Is  it  possible 
that  this  must  of  the  great  be  ever  true  ?  I  fear 
it,  I  promise  you,  since  of  a  modern  philosopher  it 
is  written,  "One  expected  him  as  a  voluminously 
bearded  Jew,  with  a  vast  forehead,  bright,  sparkling 
eyes,  and  a  certain  obscurity  of  manner,  for  this, 
according  to  the  conventions  which  mould  our 
views,  is  the  successful  Continental  professor  from 
east  of  the  Rhine.  Instead,  there  walked  on  to  the 
crowded  platform  a  rather  tired-looking  school- 
master in  middle  age,  clean-shaven  but  for  a  mous- 
tache, and  indifferently  dressed."  Of  this  aspect 
of  truth  I  am  shyer  than  I  am  of  Einstein  himself. 

It  would  seem  that  we  are  here  to  reconcile 
two  propositions  which  would  appear  at  first 
sight  to  be  mutually  destructive.  The  first  is 
the  right  of  the  artist  to  sink  the  individual,   to 

II 


Alarums  and  Excursions 

be  known  by  his  artistry  alone.  The  actor  shall 
be  such  as  his  characters  are  on  the  stage,  the 
author  such  as  his  works  reveal  him  ;  and  thougrh 
both  use  the  parade  and  glory  of  art  to  trick 
out  the  plain  citizen  it  shall  not  be  accounted 
vanity.  The  second  proposition  is  the  right  of 
actor  and  author  to  make  all  possible  play  with 
the  first  person  singular.  This  is  an  apparent 
opposition  ;  in  reality  there  is  no  see-saw.  For 
just  as  the  first  condition  of  the  actor's  art  is 
that  the  instrument  upon  which  he  plays  shall 
be  himself,  so  is  the  instrument  of  the  critic  his 
wide-flung,  uncompromising  egoism.  But,  again, 
this  egoism  is  no  more  than  the  "idea"  of  a 
personality  which  the  writer,  consciously  or  un- 
consciously, has  woven  for  you  in  the  texture 
of  his  book.  He  does  not  buttress  opinion  with 
matters  outside  the  reader's  concern,  the  number 
of  his  town  and  country  houses,  his  tale  of  plate 
and  linen.  His  prestige  is  in  the  written  page,  not 
in  himself.  "  Elia,"  at  odds  with  the  Scheme  of 
Things,  may  urge  a  gentle  displeasure  which  had 
been  .impious  in  the  India  House  clerk  "But," 
objects  the  reader,  "it  is  to  'Elia'  and  not 
Charles  Lamb  that  the  essays  are  ascribed  by 
their  author."  I  pray  the  reader,  therefore,  to 
substitute  for  the  name  on  my  cover  that  of 
N.  or  M.,  John  Doe  or  Richard  Doe,  or  such 
fantasy  as  shall  please  him.  And  I,  John 
Richard  Doe,  N.  or  M.,  claim  the  right  to 
confront  my  reader  in  my  own  person  as  often 
as  shall  please  me. 

12 


The  Decay  of  Criticism 

Those  who  will  not  stoop  to  the  baseness  of  the  modern  fashion 
are  too  often  discouraged.  Those  who  do  stoop  tu  it  are  always 
degraded.  Macaulay. 

MANY  can  write  books,  few  can  choose 
titles.  I  had  long  meditated  a  work 
upon  stage  players  across  whose  cover 
should  gleam,  streamer-wise,  "  Lord,  what  Fools 
these  Actors  be !  "  A  list  of  names  was  to 
follow.  Why  should  the  devil  have  all  the  best 
tunes  ?  Why  should  the  railway  bookstalls  sell 
nothing  but  rubbish }  Were  it  not  an  act 
of  high  morality  to  bluff  the  traveller  for  his 
own  good  .'*  Why  should  not  the  dull  fellow, 
allured  by  spicy  prospects  of  detraction,  insure 
himself  against  tedium  in  a  company  with  a 
highly  fraudulent  prospectus }  What  care  I 
though  he  pitch  me  out  of  window  at  the 
first  hint  of  disillusion.'*  Is  there  not  just  a 
chance  that  before  it  comes  to  the  pitching  we 
shall  stumble,  he  and  I,  upon  some  common 
delight  ?  And  for  a  dull  critic  to  proclaim,  and 
a  dull  reader  to  reaffirm,  a  common  joy  marks 
an  epoch  in  the  education  of  both.  It  was  the 
fear  of  libel  actions  which  turned  me  from  this 
fine  fling.  I  made  tentative  alterations  :  "  Lord 
what  Fools  .  .  ."  and  a  quite  cryptic,  ".  .  .  These 
Actors  be."  But  I  could  not  rid  myself  of  the 
feeling  that  in  the  Law  Courts  it  is  the  letter 
and  not  the  spirit  which  prevails.  A  Puckish 
extravagance,  I  should  have  pleaded  ;  hyperbole 
in  Macaulay 's  sense  of  lying  without  intention 
to  deceive,  defamation  without  intent  to  defame. 

13 


Alarums  and  Excursions 

No  actor,  I  would  have  agreed,  is  a  fool  save  in 
a  way  of  folly  presently  to  be  explained.  Yet 
that  there  must  be  something  of  this  in  his 
make-up  it  were  only  reasonable  to  suppose. 
How  else,  the  law  of  averages  holding,  and 
the  actor's  theatrical  genius  knowing  neither 
measure  nor  containment? 

A  commonplace  of  all  who  write  about  actors 
is  their  brief  continuance,  the  transitoriness  which 
is  the  essence  of  their  glory.     They  are  your  true 
ephemera.     Astronomers  leave  behind  them  new 
stars,   explorers   new  continents,  statesmen   new 
measures,  politicians  old  speeches  ;  philosophers 
bequeath     us     their     speculations,     poets     their 
verses  ;    even  my  lord  the  newspaper-proprietor 
prints  trivialities  on  the  sands  of  time — records 
of  net  sales    graven   upon    the   Margate    shore. 
Whereas    the    actor    dazzles    and    is    gone,    his 
cometary   stuff  his    own    body.       There    is    no 
elixir,   you   would   say,   which   may   prolong  the 
illusion   of  his  being,  nor  endow  him,  once  de- 
parted,  with   the  faculty  of  having   been.     Yet 
there  is  a  little  breed  of  men  who  would  ensure 
that  the   memory   of  great   acting   shall   outlive 
the  actor — aye,   and  for  more  than   half-a-year. 
These    are    the    dramatic    critics,     monumental 
masons    whose    works    are    headstones.        The 
dear  simplicity  of  actors  consists  in  their  scorn 
of  these    their  epitaphers    and    memorialists,    in 
their  disregard   of  those  who   would  ensure   for 
them  a  terrain  a  perpdtuiU.     For  this,  at  least, 
is  in  the  gift  of  the  critic. 

H 


The  Decay  of  Criticism 

"  It  matters  nothing  whether  your  criticism  be 
written  well  or  ill ;  tell  me  how  I  acted  !  "  is  said 
to  be  the  actor's  demand.  As  well  might  the 
critic  retort :  "  It  matters  nothing  how  you  mow 
and  gibber  ;  leave  your  damnable  faces  and  let  the 
author  speak."  The  quarrel  is  the  old  one  as 
to  the  function  of  criticism.  Is  it  demanded  and 
who  is  it  that  demands,  that  the  theatrical  "notice" 
shall  be  purely  informative,  determinative  of  the 
busy  man's  choice  of  distraction  ?  Is  it  to  be 
a  compendium  of  the  plot,  a  list  of  players 
and  a  computation  of  recalls?  Must  it  resolve 
itself  into  an  appreciation  of  the  dresses,  a  bill 
of  the  celebrities  in  the  boxes,  a  note  of  the 
gallery's  behaviour  ?  I  do  not  say  that  such  a 
hotch-potch  were  out  of  place  in  some  part  of  a 
newspaper :  it  is,  after  all,  a  kind  of  news.  But 
for  the  recording  thereof  there  are  news-reporters 
and  news-columns. 

The  relations  of  the  critic  are  fourfold.  There 
is  the  relation  to  the  intelligent  reader,  and  I  am 
not  persuaded  that  there  is  no  public  for  some- 
thing different  from  mere  reporting.  There  is 
the  relation  to  the  theatre-managers,  and  I  am 
not  convinced  of  the  insistence  of  these  gentlemen 
that  the  opinions  which  they  have  invited  shall 
be  non-critical.  But  neither  of  these  is  my  im- 
mediate point.  My  concern  is  with  the  relation 
there  might  be  between  critic  and  dramatist  and 
critic  and  actor  were  not  the  newspaper-editor 
ever  in  the  way.  Have  not  they,  actor  and 
dramatist,   the   right  to    demand    that    the    critic 

15 


Alarums  and  Excursions 

matched  against   them  shall  be  of  their  fellows, 
a  craftsman    at    his   own    trade,   a   conscious    as 
well    as    a    conscientious   artist  ?     This  is   not   a 
counsel    of  perfection.       La  plus    belle  fille    ne 
pent  donner  que  ce  quelle  a ;  no  writer  can  give 
beyond    his    talent.     The    difficulty   is   still   with 
the   newspapers,   the   obtaining  of  editorial  con- 
sent to  the  functioning  of  that  talent  according 
to   its   degree.     Even   though   the  journalist,  be 
he   critic   or  reporter,   perceive    that   a    different 
handling  is  required  as  between  a  new   Hamlet 
and    a    speech    at    the    Mansion    House,    there 
remains    always    his    chief    to    be    circumvented. 
That  battles    are    won    by   the    common    soldier 
and  not  by  the  general   will   always   be  true   of 
the    newspaper    world.      With    a    few    rare    and 
honourable    exceptions,   the    finest   criticism    has 
always    been    achieved    in    the    face    of    higher 
authority ;    even    the    best    of    editors    may    be 
screwed  up  to  the  courage  of  your  fine  midnight 
assault  upon  established  reputation  because   the 
hour  is  too  late  for  timidity.     When,  recently,  a 
company  of  players  from  the  Comedie  Fran^aise 
visited     London    the    programme     contained    a 
reference   to   G.   H.   Lewes — "  one    of  the    half- 
dozen    really   inspired   critics  of  the   drama  and 
of    acting."       How    many    London    papers,    one 
asked  oneself,   would  open  their  columns  to-day 
to    any    "inspired    critic"    should    such    an    one 
arise  ?     Criticism  is  at  a  discount ;    it  is  a  drug 
in   the    market,    a    waste    of  space.     The   Times 
frankly    admits    that    "The    theatre    has    meant 
i6 


The  Decay  of  Criticism 

nothing  to  England.  It  has  been  no  part  of 
our  life.  We  have  no  genius  for  the  theatre. 
We  make  an  '  amusement '  of  it,  it  is  true,  and 
a  great  industry.  But  we  have  not  made  it  even 
an  amusement  with  the  dignity  and  the  passion 
of  the  drama  enjoyed  by  nations  with  a  genius 
for  the  theatre."  The  attitude  of  the  Press  itself 
has  changed  during  the  last  twenty  years,  for  in 
place  of  the  old  obligation  to  lead  public  taste 
the  modern  urgency  is  to  pursue  it.  The  Press 
has  descended  from  criticism  of  books  to  person- 
alities about  authors  ;  from  criticism  of  actors  to 
chatter  of  the  wings.  When  formerly  a  great 
actor  arose  the  polite  world  held  its  breath  until 
a  Hazlitt,  a  Lewes,  or  even  a  Clement  Scott  had 
pronounced  judgment.  But  the  acting  of  the 
actor  is  no  longer  supposed  to  be  the  reader's 
concern.  He  is  offered,  in  place  of  criticism, 
irrelevant  gossip  after  the  manner  of  the 
servants'  hall. 

Newspaper  criticism  is  divided  to-day  into  two 
distinct  kinds.  The  first  wears  the  old  air  of 
erudition  and  authority  which  serves  to  conceal 
or,  perhaps,  to  betray  a  well-bred  indifference  ; 
it  is  become  a  livery  of  pure  tedium.  One  must 
suppose  thirty  or  forty  years  of  writing  about  the 
London  theatre  to  have  induced  in  the  finer  sort 
of  critic  a  weariness  too  jaded  even  for  indig- 
nation ;  the  sight  of  the  most  polished  of  light 
comedians  ^  crawling  on  his  stomach  about  a  bed- 
room floor  no  longer  stirs  him  to  protest.     The 

*  Mr  Charles  Hawtrey  in  Up  in  Mabets  Room. 

B  17 


Alarums  and  Excursions 

second  is  not  criticism  at  all.  It  consists  of  a 
bald  statement  of  the  plot  of  the  play,  a  denuded 
account  of  the  acting,  and  a  rapturous  tale  of 
the  reception.  The  whole  under  twenty  lines. 
The  best  that  can  be  said  of  such  criticism  is 
that  it  is  strictly  non-committal.  In  many  papers 
the  dramatic  criticism  is  entrusted  to  the  hack 
whose  job  it  is  to  concoct  the  daily  or  weekly 
column  of  theatrical  "news."  Now  either  the 
weekly  gossip-column  is  made  up  of  paragraphs 
sent  in  by  the  theatrical  Press-agent,  unaltered 
and  pinned  together,  or  it  is  not.  In  the  first 
case  these  paragraphs  are  simple  advertisements 
and  should  be  paid  for  as  advertisements  and  the 
public  notified  that  they  are  advertisements.  The 
second  case  presupposes  some  sort  of  editing. 

A  critic  who  is  entrusted  with  the  work  of  criti- 
cising actors  who  are  artists  must  necessarily 
be  an  artist  himself.  Not  even  your  lordliest 
polypapist^  will  deny  this.  Justifiable,  therefore, 
would  be  the  employment  of  an  artist  to  sub-edit 
gossip  were  the  intention  to  discard  the  chaff  and 
use  only  the  grain.  But  it  is  clear  that  what  is 
demanded  is  not  the  sifting  of  an  unconscionable 
amount  of  trash,  but  its  increase.  From  which 
it  follows  that  an  artist  is  the  last  person  to 
be  chosen.  If  the  sifter's  mesh  be  fine,  he  is 
useless  to  his  paper  in  the  vulgar  capacity  ;  if  it 
be  coarse,  he  cannot  have  fineness  of  discrimina- 

1  We  have  the  authority  of  a  highly  critical  review  for  taking  this  word 
to  mean  "an  owner  of  many  papers"  and  not  "a  believer  in  many 
popes." 

i8 


The  Decay  of  Criticism 

tion  and  should  not  be  employed  as  critic.  No 
critic  should  be  asked  to  puff,  nor,  being  asked, 
will  so  betray  his  function  ;  whilst  it  is  unfair  to 
demand  of  the  strenuous  news-monger  that  he 
shall  have  a  mind  for  values.  Pedlars  should 
stick  to  their  wares. 

There  is  yet  one  other  way  of  concocting  a 
gossip-column,  a  way  one  shrinks  from  ex- 
amining too  closely.  This  is  the  method  of  first- 
hand collection.  Imagination  boggles  at  the 
thought  of  a  "  really  inspired  critic  "  hanging  over 
bars,  toadying  to  managers,  bribing  the  call-boy, 
confabbing  with  underlings — the  whole  art  and 
science  of  the  tout.  How  otherwise  can  these 
sly-boots  justify  their  salaries?  If  the  theatre- 
manager  wants  it  to  be  known  that  Miss  Biddy 
from  Bideford  is  giving  place  to  Miss  Bahs  from 
Babhicombe  there  are  the  drum  and  cymbals, 
siren  and  foghorn  of  the  Press-agent  ready  to 
his  hand.  If  the  manager  does  not  want  the 
tremendous  secret  to  be  known,  what  is  there  but 
treachery  in  these  mischievous  flutings  ?  It  is 
difficult  to  justify  the  collective  or  inventive  gossip. 
Either  he  is  pure  busybody,  or  the  theatrical 
publicity-monger  is  a  less  communicative  person 
than  one  thought.  Were  I  an  actor,  I  should 
immensely  resent  being  criticised  at  night  by 
a  spy  who  had  spent  his  morning  at  the  keyhole. 
It  is  not  the  eavesdropping  to  which  I  should 
object  but  the  mentality  of  the  eavesdropper.^ 

*  I  have  never,  to  my  knowledge,  set  eyes  on  a  professional  gossip-monger 
who  wormed  out  his  own  secrets.     If  it  be  proved  that  there  are  such 

19 


Alarums  and  Excursions 

What  one  would,  of  course,  unhesitatingly 
condemn  would  be  that  any  Press-agent  in  the 
pay  of  a  theatrical  management  should  be  engaged 
as  dramatic  critic  on  the  staff  of  a  newspaper. 
Against  this  it  may  be  argued  that  a  man  cannot 
live  by  dramatic  criticism  alone,  and  that  it  were 
unjust  he  should  be  debarred  from  exercising 
his  talents  in  a  collateral  interest.  Let  there  be 
no  misunderstanding.  I  do  not  say  that  both 
functions  may  not  be  discharged  with  honour  by 
the  same  person.  I  do  say  that  no  considerate 
editor  would  put  his  critic  into*  the  difficult 
position  of  having  to  notice  the  productions  of  his 
theatrical  employer.  Not  even  in  the  theatre  can 
a  man  serve  two  masters.  It  were  no  answer  to 
say  that  in  such  a  case  the  critic  would  be  absolved 
from  noticing  the  performance  he  is  paid  to  puff  in 
another  column, and  that  someother representative 
of  the  paper  would  be  sent.  He  would  still  have 
to  notice  the  productions  of  his  employer's  rivals. 
Here  again  I  do  not  say  that  the  most  perfect 
fairness  might  not  be  maintained.  The  point  is 
that  the  position  is  one  of  extreme  delicacy  for 
the  critic  and  that  the  public  should  be  made 
aware  of  the  delicate  position.  At  the  head  of 
every  newspaper  criticism  written  by  a  theatrical 
Press-agent  the  reader  should  be  notified  as 
follows  : — 

Mr  X.  is  the  accredited  Press-agent  of  Messrs  A.B. 

people  and  that  their  profession  is  one  of  distinction  and  honour,  I  will 
persuade  my  publisher  to  print  a  second  edition  of  this  book  that  the 
necessary  correction  may  be  made. 

20 


The  Decay  of  Criticism 

and  C.  The  Daily  Lynx  submits  Mr  A.'s  opinions 
of  the  productions  of  this  and  other  managements 
in  the  perfect  persuasion  ^  of  his  critical  honesty. 

But  to  find  the  real  trouble  we  must  go  very 
much  deeper.  The  real  trouble  is  that  the  Press- 
agent,  being  a  man  of  the  theatre  of  the  same 
order  as  the  producer,  sees  the  theatre  from  the 
inside,  in  terms  of  the  producer's  "effects."  He 
knows  the  lath  and  plaster  too  well  to  see  the 
structure  as  a  whole,  is  too  intimate  with  the 
bricks  and  rriortar  of  make-believe  to  come  with 
fresh  eyes  to  reality  and  truth.  The  attitude  of 
the  fine  critic  must  always  be  one  of  complete 
detachment.  For  him  the  play's  the  thing ;  no 
other  consideration  may  come  within  his  ken. 
His  province  is  the  relation  between  art  and  life. 
For  him  the  intercourse  and  traffic  of  the  players, 
the  inner  workings  of  the  stage,  do  not  exist. 
For  him  the  curtain  rises  upon  the  unknown,  and 
descends  upon  a  world  that  has  ceased  to  be. 
The  *' inspired  "' critic  of  former  days  relied  upon 
his  taste.  He  who  to-day  should  plead  long 
apprenticeship  to  the  study  of  the  drama,  a  feel- 
ing for  acting  and  some  fastidiousness  of  style 
would  be  hounded  out  of  Fleet  Street.  No  !  the 
word's  too  strong,  and  presupposes  moral  indigna- 
tion. He  would  be  gently  laughed  out  of  the 
office.  That  there  is  not  a  larger  body  of  con- 
sidered judgment  of  the  theatre,  the  work  of 
fine  minds,  is  the  fault  of  those  who  harry  taste 

*  If  the  editor  be  in  good  heart  he  may  go  as  far  as  "full  conviction." 

21 


Alarums  and  Excursions 

down  the  public  street  and  woo  her  at  every 
corner. 

And  all  because  of  the  crazy  notion  that  there 
is  no  middle  way  between  the  "highbrow"^  and 
the  no  brow  at  all,  that  the  writer  who  is 
master  of  his  subject  is  necessarily  unreadable 
and  that  the  public  will  steadily  refuse  to  have 
anything"  to  do  with  the  brains  of  others  or  to 
use  its  own.  What,  under  these  conditions,  be- 
comes of  my  plea  for  the  critic  as  artist  ?  First 
let  us  suppose  that  the  newspapers  are  not  what 
we  know  them  to  be.  Then  let  us  decide  what 
exactly  is  an  artist,  be  he  painter,  poet,  musician, 
critic,  mime.  I  cannot,  I  think,  do  better  than 
quote  a  passage  which  every  actor  and  every 
dramatic  critic  should  know  by  heart.  It  is  to  be 
found  in  The  Manchester  Stage,  i88o-igoo.  This 
little  book  is  now  very  difficult  to  obtain  and  I 
make  no  apology  for  giving  the  passage  here. 
It  is  by  C.  E.  Montague. 

"  What  is  an  artist  ?  What,  exactly,  is  it  in  a 
man  that  makes  an  artist  of  him  }  Well,  first  a 
proneness  in  his  mind  to  revel  and  bask  in  his 
own  sense  of  fact ;  not  in  the  use  of  fact — that  is 
for  the  men  of  affairs  ;  nor  in  the  explanation  of 
fact — that  is  for  the  men  of  science ;  but  simply 
in  his  own  quick  and  glowing  apprehension  of 
what  is  about  him,  of  all  that  is  done  on  the 
earth  or  goes  on  in  the  sky,  of  dying  and  being 

1  This  objectionable  word  has  been  debased,  if  it  could  be  debased,  to  mean 
not  only  the  super-intellectual  and  hypercritical,  but  also,  in  the  case  of 
writers,  whosoever  retains  a  sense  of  the  decency  and  dignity  of  letters. 

22 


The  Decay  of  Criticism 

born,  of  the  sun,  clouds,  and  storms,  of  great 
deeds  and  failures,  the  changes  of  the  seasons, 
and  the  strange  events  of  men's  lives.  To  mix 
with  the  day's  diet  of  sights  and  sounds  the  man 
of  this  type  seems  to  bring  a  wine  of  his  own  that 
lights  a  fire  in  his  blood  as  he  sits  at  the  meal. 
What  the  finest  minds  of  other  types  eschew  he 
does,  and  takes  pains  to  do.  To  shun  the  dry 
light,  to  drench  all  he  sees  with  himself,  his  own 
temperament,  the  humours  of  his  own  moods — 
this  is  not  his  dread  but  his  wish,  as  well  as  his 
bent.  '  A  fool  sees  not  the  same  tree  that  a 
wise  man  sees.'  '  You  shall  see  the  world  in  a 
grain  of  sand  And  heaven  in  a  wild  flower.'  This 
heightened  and  delighted  personal  sense  of  fact, 
a  knack  of  seeing  visions  at  the  instance  of  seen 
things,  is  the  basis  of  art. 

"  Only  the  basis,  though.  For  that  art  may 
come  a  man  must  add  to  it  a  veritable  passion 
for  arresting  and  defining  in  words,  or  lines  and 
colours,  or  notes  of  music, ^  not  each  or  any  thing 
that  he  sees,  nor  anybody  else's  sense  of  that 
thing,  nor  yet  the  greatest  common  measure  of 
many  trained  or  untrained  minds'  senses  of  it,  but 
his  own  unique  sense  of  it,  the  precise  quality 
and  degree  of  emotion  that  the  spectacle  of  it 
breeds  in  him  and  nobody  else,  the  net  result  of 
its  contact  with  whatever  in  his  own  temperament 
he  has  not  in  common  with  other  men.  That  is 
the  truth  of  art,  to  be  true  less  to  facts  without 

1  The  actor  was  not  specifically   in   the  writer's  mind  or  he  would   have 
added  accent  and  gesture. 


Alarums  and  Excursions 

you  than  to  yourself  as  stirred  by  facts.  And 
truth  it  must  be  with  a  vengeance.  To  find  a 
glove  fit  of  words  for  your  sense  of  '  the  glory 
and  the  freshness  of  a  dream,'  to  model  the  very 
form  and  pressure  of  an  inward  vision  to  the 
millionth  of  a  hair's  breadth — the  vocabulary  of 
mensuration  ludicrously  fails  to  describe  those 
infinitesimal  niceties  of  adjustment  between  the  in- 
ward feeling  and  the  means  of  its  presentment.  .  .  . 
"  '  There  are  no  beautiful  thoughts,'  a  fastidious 
artist  has  said,  '  without  beautiful  forms.'  ^  The 
perfect  expression  is  the  completed  emotion.  So 
the  artist  is  incessantly  preoccupied  in  leading 
his  sense  of  fact  up  to  the  point  at  which  it 
achieves  not  merely  expression  but  its  own 
completion  in  the  one  word,  phrase,  line,  stanza 
that  can  make  it,  simply  as  a  feeling  of  his  own, 
all  that  it  has  in  it  to  be.  He  may  be  said  to  write 
or  paint  because  there  is  a  point  beyond  which 
the  joy  of  tasting  the  world  about  him  cannot  go 
unless  he  does  so  ;  and  his  life  passes  in  a  series 
of  moments  at  which  thought  and  expression,  the 
sense  of  fact  and  the  consummate  presentation  of 
that  sense,  rush  together  like  Blake's  '  soul  and 
body  reunited,'  to  be  indistinguishably  fused 
together  in  a  whole  in  which,  alone,  each  can 
attain  its  own  perfection." 

I  cannot  think  that  the  actor  will  cavil  at  this 
exposition  of  what  artistry  means  to  him.  Nor 
can   I   think  that   he  will  willingly  offer  his   art 

*  A  fastidious  critic  of  acting  will  say  that  there  can  be  no  beauty  of 
conception  without  beauty  of  execution. 

24 


The  Decay  of  Criticism 

to  shafts  less  nobly  winged.  I  do  not  believe 
that  he  desires  the  commendations  of  unlettered 
boors.  If  the  actor  be  the  artist  I  take  him  for, 
he  will  demand  that  criticism  of  his  acting  shall 
assume  the  colour  of  his  acting.  To  do  this 
effectively  the  critic  must  be  artist  as  well  as 
reporter.  If  the  critic  be  the  artist  I  take  him 
for  he  will  hug  the  ground  of  plain  fact  in  so 
far  as  he  is  under  the  necessity  of  recording  the 
player's  accent  and  gesture,  his  treatment  of  line 
and  scene  ;  but  he  will  also  take  to  himself  wings 
with  which  to  beat  the  air  of  the  actor's  inspira- 
tion. He  will  insist  that  you  read  not  between 
his  lines  but  above  them.  Am  I  asked  to  give 
examples  which  fulfil  these  two  functions  ?  This 
is  a  fair  challenge  and  I  will  meet  it  fairly.  I 
will  take  four  criticisms — three  of  living  players 
and  one  of  a  great  Frenchwoman  recently  dead. 
It  is  from  the  columns  of  a  great  provincial  paper 
that  I  take  them. 

Of  Mrs  Patrick  Campbell  ^  : 

"The  Lady  Ellingham  of  the  play  is  animated 
by  Mrs  Campbell  into  one  of  the  women  whom 
she  acts  as  a  class  rather  than  individually — so 
that  her  acting  almost  seems  like  an  argument, 
a  theory  of  femininity,  like  Matthew  Arnold's 
about  '  things  that  live  and  move  Mined  by  the 
fever  of  the  soul.'  Like  her  Mariana,  her  Paula, 
her  Beata,  so  her  Lady  Ellingham  seems,  behind 
all  that  she  directly  says,  to  be  asserting  the  title 

^  By  C.  E.  Montague. 

25 


Alarums  and  Excursions 

of  a  certain  temperament  to  more  of  the  good 
things  of  the  emotional  world  than  it  commonly 
gets  ;  the  appealing  lassitude,  the  quick  untruth- 
fulness, the  troubled  and  plaintive  tenderness  all 
seem  like  chanorinor  modes  following:  some  one 
quest,  and  the  impression  is  never  stronger  than 
in  those  passages  of  listening  to  long  speeches 
by  others  in  which  Mrs  Campbell,  usually  sitting 
in  profile  with  outstretched  neck,  gives  so  wide 
a  range  of  expressiveness  to  the  mere  act  of 
attention.  She  can  listen  as  articulately  as  many 
actors  can  speak  ;  within  the  limits  of  silence  she 
attains  the  diversity  and  intensity  of  emotional 
significance  that  brings  her  art  near  to  the  delicacy 
achieved  by  Maeterlinck  in  his." 

Of  Miss  Irene  Vanbrugh  ^  : 

"She  is  far  the  best  of  English  actresses  at 
expressing  a  certain  kind  of  salt,  sane,  wayward 
honesty  of  ill-will  and  generosity,  the  temper  that 
jumps  in  a  semi-calculable  way  up  and  down  the 
whole  scale  of  equity  and  magnanimity,  from 
uncompromisingly  Mosaic  doctrines  of  an  eye 
for  an  eye  to  super-Christian  prodigies  of  self- 
sacrifice.  Small  shame  to  her  that  this  time  she 
does  the  Old  Testament  ethics  the  better  of 
the  two,  for  Mr  Pinero  does  them  vastly  better. 
Indeed  the  whole  theory  of  retaliatory  justice, 
with  its  set  contrasts  and  its  spirit  of  pat, 
triumphant  repartee,  is  much  more  easily  drama- 
tised than  the  mild,  blond  sort  of  moral  beauty 

^  By  C.  E.  Montague. 
26 


The  Decay  of  Criticism 

that  answereth  not  again.  The  vivacity  with 
which  Miss  Vanbrugh's  Nina  routed  the  advanced 
guard  of  Hilary  Jesson's  heavy  brigade  of  argu- 
ments for  the  wearing  of  haloes  did  good  to  the 
natural  man  in  all  of  us,  though  there  were  other 
and  less  momentous  moments  at  which  her  art 
was  even  finer.  Like  Irving  and  Bernhardt,  she 
can  shout  through  a  door  into  a  passage  in  a  way 
that  turns  scenery  real,  or  sit  dead  still  in  a  room 
full  of  people  and  turn  the  rest  into  faint  sketches, 
so  importunate  is  the  sense  she  conveys  of  the 
greater  authenticity  and  vehemence  of  her  own 
emotions." 

Of  Mr  Arthur  Bourchier  ^ : 

"  Mr  Bourchier  sees  in  Macbeth  a  human 
creature,  and  he  plays  it  humanly.  He  does 
not  project  himself  into  the  grandiose  tradition, 
and  his  performance,  fine  and  imaginative  as  it 
was,  appeared  deficient  in  that  it  hardly  gave 
us  the  thrill  of  something  transcendent  or  aloof. 
Sometimes  it  seemed  to  ground  on  prose,  and 
it  did,  now  and  then,  decline  into  conventional 
declamation.  Of  course  one  must  disagree  with 
details.  We  look  in  vain  for  anything  in  the 
text  to  justify  the  extraordinary  nervous  break- 
down in  the  scene  before  Banquo's  murder,  and 
if  in  this  the  actor  is  preparing  us  for  the  great 
paroxysms  of  the  next  scene  he  has  gone  beyond 
Shakespeare,  who  terrifies  him  with  an  honest 
Ghost,  and  no  mere  subjective  apparition.    If  Mr 

*  By  A.  N.  Monkhouse. 

27 


Alarums  and  Excursions 

Bourchier  is  wrong  here,  however,  he  is  wrong 
deHberately  and  ingeniously  ;  his  reception  of  the 
news  of  the  Queen's  death  seems  rather  the  accept- 
ance of  convention — the  human  convention.  A 
man  must  be  overcome  by  the  news  of  his  wife's 
death  even  if  Shakespeare  has  taken  pains  to 
show  us  that  he  was  not.  Yet  nothing  in  the 
play  seems  more  illuminating  than  Macbeth's 
indifference  under  the  stress  of  his  tremendous 
preoccupation.  He  is  concerned  with  himself, 
his  life,  his  fate  ;  his  wife  has  been  left  behind 
in  the  race,  and  her  death  is  merely  another 
starting-point  for  the  philosophisings  of  the  in- 
satiable egoist.  Life  has  lost  its  savour,  but  it 
is  still  worthy  of  comment  by  one  who  tastes  it 
like  a  poet.  If  Mr  Bourchier  did  not  make  a 
great  spirit  of  Macbeth,  he  did  present  a  real 
personality.  When  Macbeth  must,  by  the  terms 
of  his  part  or  the  tradition  from  which  no  actor 
can  set  himself  free,  strike  a  key  violently  un- 
natural Mr  Bourchier  conformed  to  the  necessity 
ungraciously.  In  his  dealings  with  the  witches 
there  was  no  attempt  at  Irving's  subtle  note  of 
scepticism,  but  even  with  such  a  concession  to 
the  modern  spirit  the  witches  of  the  stage  are 
anachronisms  ;  this  great  play  has  not  weathered 
evenly." 

Of  R^jane  i : 

"  Paris    has    buried    Rejane   with    the   infinite 
regret   due  to  any  artist   who   can   do  any   one 

^  Presumably  Montague,  from  the  style. 
28 


The  Decay  of  Criticism 

thing,  however  Hmited,  uniquely  well,  so  that 
the  artist's  death  is  a  diminution,  for  the  time 
being,  of  the  world's  power  of  seeing  itself. 
Rejane's  acting  showed  us  the  most  primitive 
and  physical  of  emotions  worked  up  to  their 
last  subtleties  of  quiet  finesse.  Her  genius  was 
sex  bejewelled  with  every  invention  of  cunning 
and  charm  that  in  civilised  history — perhaps  long 
before — the  instinct  has  forged  for  its  harmony, 
so  that  you  felt  she  was  the  last,  up  to  date,  of 
the  line  of  Helen  and  Sappho  and  Queen  Cleo- 
patra and  Mary  Stuart,  and  all  the  women  famous 
in  history  for  womanishness.  The  craft  which 
spoke  in  her  voice  and  her  eyes  was  the  sum  and 
perfection  of  what,  in  all  but  the  most  noble  ages, 
most  men  have  wished  women  to  have  instead  of 
high  intellect.  Perhaps  her  virtuosity  was  great- 
est when  she  was  vulgar,  as  she  sometimes  was, 
for  it  was  always  in  the  character  and  was  the 
vulgarity  that  is  seldom  far  from  the  human 
animal  when  it  has  only  decorated  its  animal  life 
and  not  built  an  ampler  life  upon  it.  All  that  she 
did  on  the  stag^e  was  done  with  an  indescribable 
energy  and  sparkle  that  restored  wonderfulness 
to  old  themes  which  in  other  hands  would  be  dull. 
"  For  the  Paris  playgoer  a  whole  range  of 
'  femininity '  goes  dim  at  her  death,  as  a  kind 
of  film  formed  between  our  eyes  and  the  great 
scamps  of  Moliere  when  Coquelin  died." 

I    claim   that   these   passages   make  good  the 
theory   of  artistry  in    criticism.      They    present 

29 


Alarums  and  Excursions 

the  actor  to  the  life,  and  what  more  can  be 
demanded.!  That  actors  wilfully  ignore  such 
life-giving  criticism  is  the  matter  of  my  quarrel 
with  them. 

Dear,  delightful  people,  unaccountable,  irra- 
tional, splendidly  right  for  the  wrongest  reasons. 
How  they  love  to  whittle  away  their  own 
creations  with  some  tale  of  dismal  intention ! 
Actors'  mouths  should  be  shut  upon  them  that 
they  may  betray  their  creations  nowhere  save  in 
their  own  brain.  They  are  the  best  judges  of 
the  tricks  of  acting,  the  worst  of  the  art  in  its 
relation  to  life.  And  this  for  a  compelling  reason 
to  be  found  in  their  lack  of  a  standard  of  refer- 
ence outside  the  theatre.^  They  regard  their  art 
as  absolute,  and  so  it  must  be  to  them.  They 
look  upon  it  with  the  physical  eye,  for  not  other- 
wise could  they  carry  out  their  half  of  the 
contract.  But  they  forget  that  stage-illusion  is  a 
pact  between  actor  and  spectator.     Just  as   the 

^  Ever  bearing  in  mind  the  editorial  principle  that  the  reader  must  at  all 
costs  be  entertained,  I  lay  no  stress  on  the  instructional  value  of  these 
passages.  I  maintain  that  they  are  more  aniushig  than  the  meaningless 
list  of  adjectives,  the  perfunctory  "  magnificents  "  and  "  amazings. " 
*  It  would  seem  that  some  of  our  lighter  actresses  do  not  give  themselves 
time  to  become  acquainted  with  life  outside  the  dressing-room.  The 
following  is  a  theatrical  "star's  "  account  of  "  what  I  did  during  the  last 

two  days  before  I  set  out  on  tour  with . 

Three  visits  to  my  theatrical  dressmaker  ;  two  visits  to  my  own  dress- 
maker ;  measured  for  theatrical  shoes  ;  measured  for  private  foot-gear  ; 

six  hours  at  Messrs 's,  my  theatrical  photographers  ;  four  hours  at 

rehearsals  ;  two  visits  to  theatrical  milliners  ;  visit  to  a  well-known  song- 
writer to  try  over  some  new  songs  he  was  writing  for  me  ;  an  hour  s 
practice  at  two  new  dances  ;  signed  over  three  hundred  picture  post-cards, 
and  replied  personally  to  thirty-four  letters. " 

I  note,  however,  that  "the  stage  calls  for  the  possession  of  certain 
qualities  just  in  the  same  way  as  do  all  other  professions."  In  gratitude 
for  the  concession  I  kiss  the  writer's  "private  foot-gear." 

3° 


The  Decay  of  Criticism 

reader  uses  Shakespeare's  page  to  visualise  the 
characters  for  himself,  so  the  playgoer  uses  the 
actor  to  corroborate  some  mental  picture  of  his 
own.  Falstaff  calls  not  only  to  the  Falstaff  of  an 
inner  vision,  but  also  to  the  spectator's  whole 
conception  of  spiritual  fatness.  Othello  sends 
us  harking  back  to  all  noble  souls  wrought  and 
perplexed.  Marguerite  Gautier  is  one  of  a  class. 
The  smiling  rogues  of  Hawtrey,  the  clowns  of 
Grock,  are  but  incarnations  of  ourselves.  From 
which  it  follows  that  actors  are  least  good  when 
they  draw  most  attention  to  their  cleverness  and 
skill ;  best,  when  they  leave  the  mind  free  to  build 
up  its  own  images.  It  were,  however,  inhuman 
to  ask  the  actor  to  accept  so  stern  a  limitation  of 
his  art,  and  it  is  easy  to  understand  that  in  his 
eyes  he  should  be  appraised  according  to  what  is 
to  him  palpable  achievement. 

An  illuminative  story  is  told  of  the  American 
actor  Forrest,  who,  being  complimented  on  his 
acting  of  Lear,  exclaimed,  "Act  Lear!  I  do  not 
act  Lear.  I  act  Hamlet,  Richard,  Shylock, 
Virginius,  if  you  please  ;  but,  by  God !  Sir,  I  am 
Lear !  " 

You  can  never  get  your  great  actor  to  believe 
that  only  the  spectator  is  competent  to  say  which 
part  he  plays  at  being  and  which  he  brings  to 
Hfe.i 

1  '*  With  my  heart  literally  in  my  mouth,  and  feeling  the  most  insignificant 
person  in  the  world,  I  went  on  the  stage — and  then,  at  last,  I  forgot  that 
I  was  Miss  Jones.  My  nervousness  vanished  ;  I  was  not  myself  any  more, 
I  was  just  Angela."  So  writes  a  young  lady  of  the  musical-comedy  stage 
in  a  work  of  self-revelation.  From  which  we  are  to  gather  that  every- 
body in  the  audience  was  convinced  that  she  was  "just  Angela." 


Alarums  and  Excursions 

We  are  not,  then,  surprised  to  find  a  great 
actress  writing,  "Seldom  does  the  outsider,  how- 
ever talented  as  a  writer  and  observer,  recog^nise 
the  actor  s  art,  and  often  we  are  told  that  we  are 
acting  best  when  we  are  showing  the  works  most 
plainly,  and  denied  any  special  virtue  when  we 
are  concealing  our  method."  The  passage  is  so 
definitely  wrong-headed  that  it  makes  my  point. 
It  is  not  the  duty  of  the  critic  to  award  marks  for 
degrees  in  skilful  concealment,  to  give  praise  to 
Madame  Sans-Gene  for  a  successful  assumption 
of  vulgarity  or  withhold  it  from  Beatrice  on  the 
pretext  that  a  star  danced  and  under  that  star  a 
great  and  dear  actress  was  born.  The  business 
of  a  critic  who  shall  stand  up  to  Beatrice  is  to 
give  as  exactly  as  he  may  an  idea  of  the  actress's 
definite  achievement,  her  reading  and  her  "busi- 
ness "  ;  then  to  make  parade  of  the  images  which 
rose  to  his  mind  as  she  strode  back  and  forth, 
masterfully,  clapping  capacious  hands  together, 
now  beguiling,  now  bullying,  wheeling  over  the 
text  like  some  bird  on  broad  wing  or  taking  the 
aisle  of  the  church  like  some  fair  ship  in  sail. 
There  were  little  value  to  the  present  day,  and 
none  at  all  to  posterity,  in  an  enumeration  of 
recalls  and  a  vague  deposition  as  to  power  and 
pathos.  The  critic  must  give  images  of  that 
power,  and  clues  to  the  particular  quality  of 
pathos.  He  will  endeavour  to  "hit  off"  Mr 
Nigel  Playfair's  round-eyed,  solemn  personages 
by  some  such  imaginative  turn  as  "  A  Parliament 
of  Owls  in  Conclave,"  to  bring  back  Miss  Fay 
32 


The  Decay  of  Criticism 

Compton's  Mary  Rose  by  some  such  phrase  as 
"her  simplicity  shone  as  the  sun  and  was  trans- 
figured before  us."  Recently,  after  the  exit,  in 
a  play  which  drew  all  London,  of  one  of  our 
strongest  and  least  silent  raisonneurs,  an  elderly 
gentleman  turned  to  me  and  said  :  "  Excuse  me, 
sir,  I  have  been  out  of  England  for  twenty-seven 
years.     Could  you  tell  me  whether  that  actor  is 

Mr ?"  I  assented,  and  he  then  exclaimed:  "I 

thought  so.  I  played  cricket  with  him  at  Oxford, 
and  he  hatted  just  like  that.''  I  take  this  to  be  the 
finest  criticism  of  an  actor  ever  uttered. 

Players,  in  their  memoirs,  too  rarely  cite  that 
which  their  memorialists,  humbly  striving,  have 
written  to  the  perpetuation  of  their  fame. 
Rather  will  they  recount  how  many  times  they 
played  a  part  and  what  clothes  they  wore,  the 
remarks  of  the  dresser  and  the  chatter  of  friends, 
the  overture  of  fear  and  the  finale  of  triumph. 
Of  such  dross  they  are  prodigal  indeed  ;  all  too 
niggardly  of  the  gold  which  fine  minds,  plying 
pick  and  shovel,  have  wrested  from  the  hidden 
places  of  their  art.^ 

*  Miss  Ellen  Terry,  in  a  book  of  which  the  noblest  thing  is  her  apprecia- 
tion of  the  art  ut  Henry  Irving,  has  the  following  passage  : — 
"  In  1902  on  the  last  provincial  tour  that  we  ever  went  together,  Irving 
was  ill  again,  hut  lie  did  not  give  in.  One  night  when  his  cough  was 
rending  him  and  he  could  hardly  stand  up  for  weakness,  he  acted  so 
brilliantly  and  strongly  that  it  was  easy  to  believe  in  the  triumph  of  mind 
over  matter—  in  Christian  science  in  fact !  Strange  to  say,  a  newspaper 
man  noticed  the  splendid  power  of  the  performance  that  night  and  wrote 
of  it  with  uncommon  discernment." 

Observe  that  in  spite  of  Miss  Terry's  manifest  desire  to  do  honour  to  the 
memory  of  a  great  actor,  it  does  not  occur  to  her  to  quote  the  passage  and 
so  restore  to  livelier  memory  that  "most  cunning  pattern  of  excelling 
nature.'' 

c  33 


Sarah  Bernhardt :    A  Postscript 

THOSE  who  like  myself  have  cherished 
a  feeling  for  the  actor's  art  akin  to 
reverence  must  have  rubbed  their  eyes 
on  seeing  a  whole  front  page  of  a  popular  news- 
paper devoted  to  the  personal  affairs  of  little 
Miss  Mary  Pickford  and  a  bare  half-dozen  lines 
to  the  announcement  that  Madame  Sarah  Bern- 
hardt had  appeared  in  Athalie :  "  The  famous 
actress  is  in  her  seventy-sixth  year.  The  role 
may  be  described  as  of  the  recumbent  order." 
Shudder  though  one  may  at  blithe  enormity,  it 
is  useless  to  cavil  at  the  editorial  sense  of  news- 
values.  To  the  whole  uneducated  world  it  really 
does  matter  what  Miss  Pickford  eats,  wears,  and 
thinks.  We  were  once  mountebank-mad  ;  we  are 
now  tied  to  the  grimace.  Miss  Pickford  is  very 
pretty  and  quite  a  good  maker  of  babyish  faces. 
She  brings  to  many  "escape  from  their  creditors 
and  a  free  field  for  emotions  they  dare  not  indulge 
in  real  life."  She  gives  pleasure  to  millions  who 
have  never  heard  of  the  great  actress,  or  having 
heard  that  she  is  an  old  lady  of  seventy-six, 
desire  not  to  see  her. 

Oh,  it  offends  me  to  the  very  soul  when  old 
age  is  treated  so !  The  hey-day  of  a  great  spirit 
knows  no  passing ;  there  is  that  in  this  old  artist 
which  shall  please  our  children  provided  they 
have  eyes  to  see  that  which  is  spirit  and  im- 
perishable. It  were  idle  to  pretend  that  the 
gesture  is  as  firm,  the  eye  as  bright,  the  voice 
as  liquid  as  once  we  knew  them.  The  wonder 
is  in  the  gentleness  of  Time  which   has  marred 


Sarah  Bernhardt :  A  Postscript 

only  the  inessential.  To  him  who  would  contri- 
bute his  quota  of  good-will  this  great  lady's  art 
is  still  the  quintessence  of  loveliness.  Memory 
aiding,  it  is  possible  to  "call  back  the  lovely 
April  of  her  prime,"  and  looking  out  upon  a 
later  day  to  see  "  despite  of  wrinkles,  this  her 
golden  time."  But  you  have  only  to  turn  to 
the  notices  of  her  latest  appearance  in  Daniel 
to  realise  the  blindness  of  those  who  will  not 
look  beyond  the  flesh.  "It  is  a  matter  for 
regret,"  writes  one  lusty  fellow,  "that  this 
actress  should  be  driven  by  circumstance  to 
parade  her  infirmities  before  us."  Follows  a 
catalogue  of  departed  bodily  graces.  "  I  will 
not  bring  my  critical  functions  to  bear  upon  the 
spectacle  of  an  old  lady  with  one  leg  portraying 
a  paralytic,"  he  concludes.  I  do  not  know  that 
I  would  condemn  this  blind  soul  to  any  darker 
circle  than  that  of  its  own  sightlessness.  The 
eye  sees  what  the  eye  brings  the  means  of 
seeing. 

As  the  artist's  physical  powers  have  waned, 
so  her  intellectual  faculties  have  ripened.  Thirty 
years  ago  she  had  been  content  to  play  this  foolish 
little  Daniel  with  "her  beauty,  her  grace,  her 
flashing  eye,  her  sinuous  charm  " — I  quote  from 
the  catalogue  of  departed  virtues — gathering  him 
up  to  heaven  at  the  end  in  her  well-known  cloud 
of  fire-works.  To-day  Madame  Bernhardt  plays 
him,  as  it  were,  colloquially,  informing  unreality 
with  a  hundred  little  shades  and  accents  of  reality. 
She  is  fanciful,  wistful,  wayward,  endowing  little 

35 


Alarums  and  Excursions 

things  with  an  actor's  interest,  with  something 
of  the  writer's  preoccupation  with  style.  I  can- 
not imagine  any  more  dehghtful  grace-note  than 
that  of  the  Httle  blue  flames  of  the  rum  omelette 
which  shall  enliven  her  loneliness.  And  when 
she  quotes  her  line  of  verse  you  are  made 
conscious  that  this  is  a  boy's  poem.  She  lingers 
over  it  with  the  tenderness  of  all  grreat  artists  for 
immaturity.  What  panting  English  tragc^dienne, 
in  the  full  measure  of  bodily  vigour,  may  compass 
the  intimacy  and  interest  of  the  Frenchwoman's 
lowest  tone  and  slightest  motion?  In  the  first 
two  acts  Daniel  does  not  appear  and  the  stage 
is  given  over  to  scenes  of  emotion  very  creditably 
portrayed  by  a  leading  light  of  the  Com^die 
Frangaise.  We  applaud,  for  the  thing  seems 
well  done  ;  but  when,  in  the  long  colloquy  with 
Daniel,  the  older  artist  sits  motionless  at  her 
table,  leaving  the  scene  in  full  generosity  to  the 
younger,  her  very  silence  it  is  which  holds  us, 
and  not  the  tinkle  of  less  significant  speech. 
What  other  actress,  when  it  comes  to  dying, 
can  so  let  life  out  of  her  voice  and  lineaments, 
so  cease  upon  the  midnight.'*  Add  to  the  glories 
of  such  a  performance  something  that  I  would 
call  a  corona  of  malice,  a  gouaillerie,  a  Puckish 
hint  that  we  shall  not  take  this  for  the  sublime 
car  of  tragedy  but  for  some  workaday  vehicle 
for  tears.  We  are  to  feel  that  the  rarer  shifts 
of  the  actress  have  not  been  harnessed,  and 
our  minds  are  sent  on  haunting  quest  for  the 
greatnesses    that    once    she    compassed.       As   a 

3-5 


Sarah  Bernhardt :  A  Postscript 

younger  woman  she  had  neither  the  wit  nor 
strength  of  mind  to  make  this  bargain  with 
our  penetration. 

A  year  or  two  ago  a  series  of  performances 
was  announced  which  was  to  be  determinate 
and  valedictory.  Equally  looked  forward  to  and 
dreaded,  they  did  not,  as  it  happened,  come  off. 
In  the  first  place  the  lady  declared,  in  that 
vigorous  way  of  hers,  that  the  visit  would  in  no 
way  be  one  of  farewell.  She  was  not  for  epilo- 
gising  ;  in  any  case  the  time  was  not  yet.  She 
was  off  to  Honolulu,  Hong-Kong,  Saskatchewan, 
how  did  she  know  whither  ? — and  merely  desired 
to  take  temporary  leave  of  the  polite  world. 
And  then  she  became  ill  and  the  engagement 
was  not  fulfilled. 

Well,  there's  no  harm  in  this  sort  of  good-bye. 
May  this  triumphant  lady  spend  her  long  winter 
with  her  hand  at  her  lips  bidding  adieu.  That's 
one  simile,  and  I  would  find  another  to  fit  her 
glory  now  departing.  The  shadows  may  be 
long  ;  they  will  be  longer  yet  before  the  dark, 
fingers  to  stir  old  memories,  to  set  pulses  beating 
at  thought  of  a  pflamour  that  never  was  on  earth. 
Is  it  our  creeping  age  and  recollection  playmg 
us  tricks  ?  Was  it  not  the  artist's  acting  but  our 
own  youth  that  was  the  miracle  ?      I  wonder  ! 

But  there  is  nothing  which  does  the  subject 
even  of  avowed  panegyric  so  much  harm  as 
lack  of  discrimination  in  praise.  Let  me  frankly 
admit    that    Sarah     Bernhardt    was    never    the 

37 


Alarums  and  Excursions 

mistress  of  the  art  of  reticence,  and  that,  great 
show-woman  that  she  is,  she  has  always  turned 
advertisement  to  commodity.  Take  the  forty- 
year-old  history  of  her  famous  tiff  with  the 
Comedie  Fran^aise,  ending  in  the  rupture  which 
was  the  necessary  preliminary  to  those  galli- 
vantings  over  the  unacted  globe.  The  story  of 
it  all,  so  far  as  may  be  gleaned  from  the 
records  of  the  time,  is  something  as  follows. 
The  Comedie  pays  a  visit  to  London,  bringing 
in  its  train  Mademoiselle  Bernhardt,  a  young 
member  whose  talents  have  already  been  ac- 
claimed by  the  Parisians.  And  here  we  must 
note  that  the  French,  in  spite  of  an  excitable 
temperament,  are  capable  of  a  rare  level- 
headedness in  their  attitude  towards  artists. 
They  know  how  to  distinguish  between  the 
personality  of  the  actor  and  his  talent,  and  are 
not  swayed  by  exorbitances  outside  the  scope 
of  the  theatre.  "Je  ne  veux  connaitre  de  la 
Comedie  Fran9aise  en  ce  feuilleton,"  writes 
Sarcey,  "  que  ce  que  Ton  peut  en  voir  de  sa 
stalle  d'orchestre."  The  English  are  quite  other. 
The  critic  of  The  Times  permits  himself  to  write  : 
"  Further,  all  that  we  have  heard  of  Mademoiselle 
Sarah  Bernhardt,  of  her  various  talents  and  mani- 
fold faculties,  her  character  and  even  her  eccen- 
tricities, has  added  to  the  effect  produced  by  her 
acting  and  has  made  her,  indisputably,  the  centre 
of  our  curiosity  and  interest  in  the  Comedie 
Fran9aise."  No  Frenchman  could  have  written 
so.  The  effect  produced  by  the  acting  of  an 
38 


Sarah  Bernhardt :  A  Postscript 

artist  is,  to  him,  incapable  of  irrelevant  addition 
or  subtraction ;  he  is  conquered  by  the  artist 
and  not  by  the  woman.  Our  race  is  more 
phlegmatic,  but  it  is  also  more  naive. 

In  the  first  pages  of  the  Journal  of  the  Visit 
of  the  ComMie  Franpaise  to  London  in  1879 
Sarcey  begins  by  deploring  the  coldness  of  the 
English  public  towards  the  members  of  the 
troupe  other  than  Mademoiselle  Bernhardt.  He 
recounts  for  the  benefit  of  his  readers  in  Paris 
how,  in  spite  of  her  altogether  admirable  second  act 
in  Le  Misanthrope,  Mademoiselle  Croizette  failed 
to  please.  How,  in  Les  Caprices  de  Marianne, 
her  capriciousness  was  ravishing  but  of  no  avail. 
How,  in  LEtrangere  the  same  actress  displayed 
her  greatest  fascination  yet  without  fascinating  ; 
how,  after  her  fine  explosion  in  the  fourth  act, 
the  audience  did,  after  a  fashion,  explode  in 
sympathy.  "  Mais  ce  n  etait  pas  cela,  Le 
cceur  n'y  etait  pas."  The  only  reason  he  can 
assign  is  that  the  English  cannot  worship  two 
mistresses  at  the  same  time  and  that  their  hearts 
have  gone  out  wholly  to  Mademoiselle  Bernhardt. 
This  is  the  first  mention  of  her  in  the  Journal 
and  is  followed  by  the  phrase  :  "  Oh  !  celle-la  ..." 
"  Nothing,"  he  continues,  "  can  convey  any  idea 
of  the  infatuation  she  has  aroused.  It  amounts 
to  madness.  When  she  is  about  to  appear  a 
quiver  runs  through  the  audience  ;  she  appears, 
and  an  Ah  !  of  joy  and  rapture  is  heard  on  all 
sides.  The  house  listens  with  rapt  attention, 
bodies  bent  forward,  glasses  glued  to  their  eyes  ; 

39 


Alarums  and  Excursions 

they  will  not  lose  a  word,  and  only  when  she  has 
finished  break  into  a  fury  of  applause.  Outside 
the  theatre  they  speak  of  no  one  else." 

It  looks  very  much  as  though  the  English 
on  this  occasion  came  to  the  correct  critical 
conclusion,  although,  it  may  be,  for  the  wrong 
reasons.  We  must  take  into  account,  too,  the 
kind  of  plays  in  which  Mademoiselle  Bernhardt 
was  appearing,  and  contrast  them  with  our  own 
at  the  time.  In  1879  the  English  theatre  had 
not  yet  entirely  emerged  from  the  Robertsonian 
floods  of  milk-and-water.  W.  S.  Gilbert  was 
still  posing  as  a  sentimentalist,  Byron's  Our  Boys 
had  been  produced  four  years  earlier,  the  previous 
year  had  seen  Wills's  play  of  Olivia.  Concur- 
rently with  the  Com^die  Fran9aise  at  the  Gaiety 
there  was  running  at  the  Lyceum  young  Mr 
Pinero's  Daisy's  Escape,  and  Mr  Burnand's  Betsy 
was  in  rehearsal.  London  had  been  melted  by 
the  pity  of  Miss  Ellen  Terry's  Olivia ;  it  was 
to  be  purged  by  the  terror  of  the  Frenchwoman's 
Phedre.  The  English  of  that  period  were  ac- 
customed to  see  passion  garbed  as  decently  as 
their  table  legs.  What,  then,  must  they  have 
thought  of  Racine  and  Sarah  in  frank  exposi- 
tion of  incestuous  love!  Imagine  the  English- 
man of  du  Maurier's  pencil  confronted  by  Mr 
Joseph  Knight's  account,  in  the  respectable 
columns  of  The  AthencBum,  of  this  diversion  : 

"  From  the  moment  she  entered  on  the  stage, 
carefully    guarded    and    supported    by    CEnone, 

40 


Sarah  Bernhardt:  A  Postscript 

Mademoiselle  Bernhardt  realised  fully  the 
passionate,  febrile,  and  tortured  woman.  Her 
supple  frame  writhed  beneath  the  influence  of 
mental  agony  and  restless  desire,  and  her  postures 
seemed  chosen  with  admirable  art  for  the  purpose 
of  blending  the  greatest  possible  amount  of  seduc- 
tion with  the  utmost  possible  parade  of  penitence. 
This  is,  of  course,  the  true  reading,  and  the  whole 
shame  of  Phedre  is  due  to  her  ill  success.  The 
key-note  to  her  character  is  struck  in  a  later  act, 
the  third,  wherein  she  says  : 

*  II  n'est  plus  temps  :  il  sait  mes  ardeurs  insensees, 
De  I'austere  pudeur,  les  bornes  sont  passees. 
J'ai  declare  ma  honte  auxyeuxde  mon  vainqueur, 
Et  I'espoir  malgre  moi  s'est  glisse  dans  mon  coeur.' 

While,  accordingly,  she  exhausts  herself  in  invec- 
tive against  herself  for  her  crime,  she  is,  in  fact, 
in  the  very  whirlwind  of  her  passion  studying, 
like  a  second  Delilah, 

'  His  virtue  or  weakness  which  way  to  assail.' 

Obvious  as  is  this  view,  it  is  not  always  presented, 
the  cause  of  absence  being,  perhaps,  the  weak- 
ness of  the  actress.  In  the  present  case  it  was 
fully  revealed,  and  the  picture  of  abject  and 
lascivious  appeal  was  terrible  in  its  intensity." 

Add  to  such  a  portrayal  the  personality  which 
was  to  charm  the  educated  men  and  women  of 
half  the  civilised  globe,  and  there  is  no  wonder 
that  the  English  public  lost  somethinor  of  measure 
in  its  praise.      Incense  was  offered  up,  the  idols 

41 


Alarums  and  Excursions 

head  was  turned.      I  give  what  happened  next  as 
related  by  M.  Georges  d'HeylH  : 

'•  It  is  common  knowledge  that  this  great  and 
original  artist  has  a  distaste  for  behaving  like  the 
rest  of  the  world  and  that  discipline  appears  to  her 
mechanical  and  wearisome.  One  is  not  mistress 
of  several  arts  for  nothing.  Mademoiselle  Sarah 
Bernhardt  did  not  content  herself  in  England  \yith 
exhibiting  one  aspect  of  her  charming  personality  : 
to  be  an  actress  and  nothing  but  an  actress  was 
not  enough.  She  established  a  studio  for  painting 
and  sculpture  where  she  could  be  admired  in  the 
delightful  costume  with  which  the  photographers 
have  made  us  familiar.  Yielding  to  the  numerous 
requests  which  her  great  talents  and  the  general 
curiosity  procured  for  her,  she  consented  to 
give  performances  in  the  drawing-rooms  of  the 
aristocracy.  Now  this  would  have  been  in  no 
way  the  concern  of  either  her  colleagues  or  the 
Press,  had  it  not  been  that  the  stress  of  this 
additional  work  told  so  much  upon  the  actress  as 
to  render  her  physically  and  mentally  incapable 
of  giving  her  best  in  the  theatre.  The  day 
arrived  when  she  was  unable  to  fulfil  her  part  in 
LEtrangere.  The  bill  had  to  be  changed  and 
the  money  which  had  been  taken  for  the  perform- 
ance returned.  This  was  followed  by  recrimina- 
tions between  the  artist  and  the  French 
and  English  Press.  Mademoiselle  Bernhardt, 
annoyed  at  the  general  censure,  resigned  her 
membership  of  the  Comedie  Frangaise,  and 
42 


Sarah  Bernhardt :  A  Postscript 

accepted,  or  did  not  accept — the  rumour  at  least 
was  rife — an  engagement  for  a  tour  in  America." 

Peace  was,  however,  restored,  the  artist  made 
a  societaire  and  granted  two  months'  holiday  in 
the  year.  She  resumed  her  performances  on 
17th  April  1880.  Shortly  afterwards  a  critic 
of  standing  complained  that  she  played  Dona 
Clorinde  in  Augier's  L'Aventuriere  in  the  same 
manner  as  Virgrinie  in  LAssommoir. 

'*  La  nouvelle  Clorinde  a  eu,  pendant  les  deux 
derniers  actes,;des  emportements  excessifs  de  toute 
maniere,  d'abord  parce  qu'ils  forgaient  sa  voix 
qui  n'a  de  charme  que  dans  le  mMium,  ensuite 
parce  qu'ils  I'amenaient  a  des  mouvements  de 
corps  et  de  bras  qu'il  serait  facheux  d'emprunter 
a  la  grande  Virginie  de  I'Assommoir  pour  les 
introduire  a  la  Comedie  Fran^aise." 

Thus  Auguste  Vitu  in  the  Figaro. 

Sarah  again  resigned,  and  the  great  Sarcey 
was  devilish  cross  about  it.  "Is  it  the  fault  of 
the  Comedie,"  he  asks,  "  that  one  of  the  members 
has  perferred  the  role  of  star  to  that  of  artist? 
And  then,  is  this  so  new  to  us  Parisians  ?  Are 
we  not  by  this  time  used  to  the  eccentricities 
of  this  flamboyant  personage  ?  Mademoiselle 
Bernhardt  has  resigned  and  is  leaving  us.  It  is 
unfortunate,  it  is  true,  but  more  particularly  un- 
fortunate for  her.  The  Comedie  loses  a  charming 
actress  and  must  for  the  time  being  withdraw  a 
few  plays  which  are  now  hardly  practicable  with- 

43 


Alarums  and  Excursions 

out  her.  But  the  number  of  these  plays  is  small, 
for  her  art,  divine  instrument  though  it  be,  has 
not  many  notes.  Her  absence  is  to  be  regretted, 
but  we  shall  get  over  it,  and  another  artist  will 
arrive,  perhaps  Mademoiselle  Bartet,  who  with 
other  qualities  will  turn  the  public's  head  in  the 
same  way  and  efface  the  memory  of  her  pre- 
decessor. Actors  come  and  actors  go.  After 
Regnier,  Coquelin  ;  after  Provost,  Thiron  ; 
after  Samson,  Got ;  and  others  will  succeed  to 
the  inheritance  of  Got,  Thiron,  and  Coquelin. 
Remember  the  old  proverb,  Fmtte  d'un  moine 
Vabhaye  ne  chomepas."  Finally  he  delivered  him- 
self up  to  prophecy.  "  Let  her  make  no  mistake  ; 
her  success  will  not  be  lasting.  She  is  not  one 
of  those  who  can  bear  the  whole  brunt  of  a  play 
and  whose  brilliance  has  no  need  of  a  background 
of  mediocrity."  Was  ever  augur  more  woefully 
mistaken  ?  Sarcey  had  tried  to  bolster  up 
Croizette  ;  the  world  has  long  judged  between 
Mademoiselle  Bernhardtand  Mademoiselle  Bartet. 
But  there  is  another  factor  in  this  character 
besides  wilfulness  and  caprice — the  vacillation 
in  artistic  purpose.  The  Journal  of  the  Goncourts 
gives  a  picture  of  her  in  mid-career  which  illus- 
trates this.      It  is  Edmond  who  writes  : 

loth  October. 

"  Lunch  with  Sarah  Bernhardt  at  Bauer's,  who 
is  kindly  using  his  influence  to  induce  her  to  play 
my  La  Faustin. 

"  Sarah  arrives  in  a  pearl-grey  tunic  braided 

44 


Sarah  Bernhardt :  A  Postscript 

with  gold.  No  diamonds  except  on  the  handle  of 
her  lorgnette.  A  moth-like  wisp  of  black  lace  on 
the  burning  bush  of  her  hair  ;  beneath,  the  black 
shadow  of  lashes  and  the  clear  blue  of  her  eyes.  • 
Seated  at  the  table  she  complains  of  being  little, 
and  indeed  her  figure  is  that  of  the  women  of  the 
Renaissance.  She  sits  sideways  on  the  corner 
of  her  chair,  exactly  like  a  child  who  has  been 
promoted  to  the  big  table. 

"At  once,  with  gusto,  she  embarks  upon  the 
history  of  her  world-scamperings.  She  relates 
how  in  the  United  States,  as  soon  as  her  next  tour 
is  announced,  and  though  it  be  a  year  before- 
hand, orders  are  sent  to  France  for  a  shipload 
of  professors  in  order  that  the  young  American 
*  miss '  may  know  what  the  play  is  about. 

"  I  am  placed  next  to  Sarah.  She  must  be 
nearly  fifty.  She  wears  no  powder  and  her 
complexion  is  that  of  a  young  girl.  .  .  .  She 
talks  hygiene,  morning  exercises,  hot  baths. 
From  this  she  goes  on  to  portraits  of  people 
she  has  known.  Dumas  fih  among  others.  She 
has  a  natural  instinct  for  affability,  a  desire  to 
please  which  is  not  assumed." 

I  ']th  October. 

"  Dinner  at  Sarah's  to  read  La  Faustin. 

"  The  little  studio  where  she  receives  is  not 
unlike  a  stage  setting.  On  the  floor  against 
the  walls  rows  of  pictures,  giving  the  apartment 
something  of  the  appearance  of  an  auction-room  ; 
over  the  mantelpiece  her  full-length  portrait  by 

•45 


Alarums  and  Excursions 

Clairin.  Furniture  everywhere,  mediaeval  chests 
and  cabinets,  an  infinity  of  articles  of  virtu 
more  or  less  rasta,  statuettes  from  Chili,  musical 
instruments  from  the  Antipodes.  Only  one  sign 
of  individual  taste,  the  skins  of  great  polar-bears 
shedding  a  lustre  on  the  corner  where  she 
sits.   .  .   . 

"At  dinner  Sarah  is  very  gracious  and  full  of 
small  attentions.  We  return  to  the  studio  to 
read  the  play.  There  is  no  lamp  and  only  a 
few  candles.  The  copy  is  typewritten  and  much 
less  readable  than  it  would  have  been  in  the 
usual  round  hand,  with  the  result  that  Bauer 
does  not  read  very  well.  The  effect  is  cold. 
After  the  seventh  scene  I  insist  upon  reading 
myself.  I,  too,  do  not  manage  very  well,  but  I 
get  tension  into  it  and  Sarah  seems  impressed 
by  the  last  scene.  Then  tea,  during  which  there 
is  no  further  talk  of  the  play.  Finally  Sarah 
comes  over  to  me,  says  that  the  piece  is  full  of 
passion,  that  the  last  act  seems  superb,  and  asks 
me  to  leave  the  script  that  she  may  go  through 
one  or  two  scenes  which  have  been  omitted.  A 
few  vague  sentences  which  may  mean  that  Sarah 
will  accept  the  play,  and  even  a  phrase  as  to 
putting  me  into  touch  with  her  manager,  but 
nothing  decisive. 

"  Now  there  are  some  things  which  are  not 
favourable.  Sarah  is  a  romantic.  At  the 
moment  the  fuss  they  are  making  of  R^jane 
inclines  her  towards  the  modern,  but  her  artistic 
temperament  is  against  it.  Further,  in  my  play 
46 


Sarah  Bernhardt :  A  Postscript 

Sarah  has  a  wretch  of  a  sister,  and  it  so  happens 
that  she  actually  possesses  one— a  fact  of  which, 
until  recently,  I  was  ignorant." 

2(iih  November. 

"In  reply  to  my  letter  asking  for  the  return 
of  my  play  I  have  to-day  received  a  telegram 
from  Sarah  affirmino-  a  wish  to  act  in  somethingr 
of  mine,  and  asking  for  a  further  six  weeks  in 
which  to  think  La  Fmistin  over  quietly.  My 
belief  is  that  although  she  may  wish  to  give  the 
piece  she  will  not  do  so." 

22nd  February. 

"  To-day,  without  a  word,  the  manuscript  is 
returned." 

Once  free  of  the  Comedie,  Sarah  envisao-es 
her  famous  world-tours,  and  embarks  upon 
gallivantings  innumerable.  And  once  definitely 
on  the  rampage  candour  compels  me  to  admit, 
as  it  compelled  Joe  Gargery,  that  she  was  indeed 
a  Buster.  So  began  the  long  period  of  trumpet- 
ing vagabondage,  and  with  it  the  history  of 
"  Sardoodledum."  The  actress  tore  about  the 
habitable  globe  piling  whirlwind  upon  earth- 
quake and  littering  the  stages  of  half-a-dozen 
countries  with  the  pasteboard  wreckage  of 
Fedoras,  Theodoras,  Toscas,  Sorcieres.  There 
was  probably  not  more  than  one  English  critic 
who  kept  his  head  in  all  this  welter  of  popes, 
princes,  cardinals,  Russian  Grand  Dukes,  Austrian 
Archdukes,     German     counts,     cantatrices,     In- 

47 


Alarums  and  Excursions 

quisitors,  gaolers,  nihilists,  poisoners  and  assas- 
sins. Amid  the  general  delirium  Mr  Shaw 
alone  was  heard  to  declare  himself  unimpressed 
by  the  sight  of  an  actress  "  chopping  a  man  to 
death  with  a  hatchet  as  a  preliminary  to  appear- 
ing as  a  mediaeval  saint  with  a  palm  in  her  hand 
at  the  head  of  a  religious  procession."  "  Her 
charm,"  he  declared,  "could  be  imitated  by  a 
barmaid  with  unlimited  pin-money  and  a  row 
of  footlights  before  her  instead  of  the  handles 
of  a  beer-machine."  Her  voice  he  likened  to 
the  voix  celeste  stop,  "which,  like  a  sentimental 
New  England  villager  with  an  American  organ, 
she  keeps  always  pulled  out." 

But  this  was  not  criticism's  general  temper. 
Even  Mr  Shaw  admitted  that  when  the  actress 
was  engaged  "  not  in  stabbing  people  with  hat- 
pins, but  in  the  normal  straightforward  business 
of  acting  she  could  do  it  completely  enough." 
Then  came  the  great  day  of  Wednesday,  9th 
December  1896.  A  grand  fete  was  organised 
by  a  Mr  Henry  Bauer,  "to  mark  the  apogee  of 
Mademoiselle  Bernhardt's  artistic  career."  This 
gentleman  invited  Sarah  to  sit  herself  down  for 
an  hour  or  two  and,  recalling  her  early  struggles 
and  her  present  triumphs,  let  the  readers  of  the 
Figaro  into  her  soul-state  on  the  occasion  of  a 
ceremony  which  was  to  be  in  every  way  remark- 
able. Nothing  daunted,  the  great  artist  replied  : 
"  Mais  c'est  un  examen  de  conscience  que  vous 
me  demandez,  cher  ami,"  and  with  characteristic 
aplomb  continued :  "  Et  cependant,  je  n'hesite 
48 


Sarah  Bernhardt:  A  Postscript 

pas  une  seconde  a  vous  repondre."  The  affair 
was  a  combination  of  luncheon  and  theatrical 
performance ;  sonnets  specially  composed  were 
read  by  Francois  Copp^e,  Edmond  Haraucourt, 
Andr^  Theuriet,  Catulle  Mendes  and  one, 
inaudibly,  by  Heredia.  And  then  the  great 
Rostand  oave  tong-ue  : 

"  En  ce  temps  sans  beaut^,  seule  encor  tu  nous 

restes 
Sachant  descendre,  pale,  un  grand  escalier  clair, 
Ceindre  un   bandeau,  porter  un   lys,   brandir   un 

fer. 
Reine  de  I'attitude  et  Princesse  des  gestes. 

En  ce  temps,  sans  folie,  ardente,  tu  protestes ! 
Tu  dis  des  vers,     Tu  meurs  d'amour.     Ton  vol 

se  perd. 
Tu  tends  des  bras  de  reve,  et  puis  des  bras  de 

chair. 
Et    quand     Phedre    parait,    nous    sommes    tous 

incestes. 

Avide  de  souffrir,  tu  t'ajoutas  des  coeurs  ; 

Nous    avons    vu    couler  —  car    ils    coulent    tes 

pleurs!  — 
Toutes  les  larmes  de  nos  ames  sur  tes  joues. 

Mais  aussi  tu  sais  bien,  Sarah,  que  quelquefois 
Tu  sens  furtivement  se  poser,  quand  tu  joues, 
Les  levres  de   Shakespeare   aux   bagues  de  tes 
doigts." 

D  49 


Alarums  and  Excursions 

Our  own  Wilson  Barrett  sent  a  silver  crown  with 
the  names  of  her  roles  on  the  leaves,  and  Sarah 
was  duly  overcome. 

But  then  Sarah  could  always  be  overcome  at 
will.  It  is  said  that  when,  many  years  later,  she 
rehearsed  the  English  of  her  reply  to  the  address 
to  be  publicly  presented  to  her  by  Sir  Herbert 
Tree,  she  paused  in  the  middle  and  said  :  "  Here 
I  shall  cry  a  little."  And,  on  the  day,  in  that 
place  she  did  cry  a  little. 

There  is  a  strange  account  of  the  actress  by 
the  Roumanian,  de  Max,  which  the  curious  will 
not  desire  that  I  should  omit : 

"II  y  a  deux  Sarah — au  moins.  II  y  a  celle 
qu'on  voit  de  la  salle.  Et  il  y  a  celle  qu'on  voit 
des  coulisses.  Le  malheur  est  que,  des  coulisses, 
on  voit  quelquefois  la  meme  que  dans  la  salle,  la 
plus  belle.  C'est  un  malheur,  parce  que  ces 
jours-la,  on  n'est  plus  maitre  de  soi ;  on  arrive 
avec  de  la  haine,  de  la  fureur.  On  veut  se 
venger  d'elle,  et  puis  on  devient  spectateur  en 
jouant ;  quand  le  rideau  se  ferme,  on  lui  baise  les 
mains,  avec  des  larmes.  .  .  .  Acteur,  je  connus 
I'actrice  Sarah.  Je  commus  aussi  a  son  Theatre 
une  petite  fille,  qui  s'appelait,  par  hasard,  Sarah. 
Ai-je  deteste,  ai-je  aim^  cette  insupportable  petite 
fille?  Je  ne  sais  plus.  C'est  si  loin.  J'ai  vieilli. 
Pas  elle.  C'est  toujours  une  petite  fille,  une  in- 
supportable petite  fille,  qui  a  des  caprices,  des 
cris,  des  crises.  Ah !  les  crises  de  cette  petite 
fille!" 

50 


Sarah  Bernhardt :  A  Postscript 

And  yet  this  petite  fille  is  the  artist  from  whom 
"  speech  fell,  even  as  her  dress,  in  great  straight 
folds,  fringed  with  gold."  It  is  the  artist  with 
the  soul  of  Clairon's  "  I  am  eighty-five ;  my 
heart  is  twenty-five." 

It  is  now  a  good  many  years  since  Madame 
Sarah,  as  she  likes  to  be  called  by  people  who 
have  a  real  affection  for  her,  came  to  lunch 
at  my  mother's  house  at  Manchester.  My 
mother  managed,  throughout  her  long  life,  to 
superimpose  upon  an  outlook  not  unlike  Jane 
Austen's  a  great  sympathy  with  all  artists.  This 
may  have  been  through  her  descent  from  Edward 
Shuter,  the  comedian,  of  whom  Doran  says  that 
his  life  was  one  round  of  intense  professional 
labour,  jollification,  thoughtlessness,  embarrass- 
ment, gay  philosophy  and  addiction  to  religion 
as  expounded  by  Whitfield.  My  mother's  grace 
and  wit  were,  however,  entirely  her  own.  She 
accepted  Madame  Sarah's  proposal  that  she 
should  come  to  lunch  graciously  and  without 
commotion  of  spirit.  There  was  some  discussion, 
I  remember,  as  to  what  ceremonies  were  to  be 
observed,  and  what  eaten  and  drunk.  We  tried 
to  imagine  what  Charles  Lamb  would  have  set 
before  Mrs  Siddons.  Could  we  rely  upon  our 
guest  "counting  fish  as  nothing"?  Our  old 
nurse  it  was  who  clinched  the  matter.  "  I  suppose 
the  poor  body  eats  like  everyone  else,"  she  said, 
"her  stomach  will  be  none  the  worse  for  a  good 
warming."     There  was  some  question  as  to  who 

51 


Alarums  and  Excursions 

should  hand  the  great  lady  out  of  her  carriage 
and  help  her  up  the  steep  slope  of  the  path.  It 
was  decided  that  the  gardener,  who  for  many 
years  had  performed  this  office  for  my  mother, 
should  not  now  be  denied.  If  there  had  ever 
been  sincerity  in  Adrienne's  passages  with  the 
old  servitor,  she  would,  we  felt,  understand. 
You  see  we  were  not  unmindful  of  the  fiasco  of 
the  seaport  Mayor.  The  story  goes  that  many 
years  ago  the  great  actress  was  to  descend  upon 
a  town  which  boasts  of  a  fine  council-chamber, 
situated  at  the  top  of  a  flight  of  forty-six  steps. 
Here,  when  the  time  came,  were  to  be  ensconced 
the  Mayor  in  his  robes,  the  town  clerk,  the  beadle 
and  other  dignitaries.  It  was  up  these  steps 
that  the  great  actress  was  to  toil.  The  train 
draws  in,  a  state  carriage  with  postillions  and 
outriders  is  at  hand.  A  huge  crowd.  A  delighted 
Sarah  sets  forth,  only  to  catch  sight,  after  a  few 
yards,  of  the  stairway  at  top  of  which,  perched 
in  his  eyrie.  Bumble-surrounded,  awaits  her  the 
Mayor.  "  Ah,  mais  non  !  mais  non  !  "  she  cries. 
"  J'ai  assez  grimpe  dans  ma  vie  !     A  I'hotel." 

Well,  Madame  Sarah  came,  and  she  came  in 
state.  She  wore  a  wonderful  mantle  of  misty 
grey  like  the  breasts  of  sea-birds.  It  was  in  the 
first  chill  of  autumn,  and  I  like  to  think  that  the 
bowed  trees  of  the  warden  bent  still  lower  to 
touch  with  the  tips  of  their  branches  the  radiance 
as  it  passed.  It  was  a  moment  or  two  before  the 
presentations  were  over ;  she  had  brought  her 
granddaughter  and  a  woman  friend.  And  then 
52 


Sarah  Bernhardt :  A  Postscript 

lunch,  of  which  we  could  persuade  our  guest  to 
touch  only  a  quarter  of  a  wing  of  chicken  and 
some  toast  fingers  dipped  in  milk.  Horribly  I 
found  myself  thinking  of  Tilburina  and  her  con- 
fidante. But  almost  at  once,  to  put  us  at  our  ease, 
she  began  to  talk.  The  smallest  of  small  talk, 
conventional  inquiries  as  to  what  we  did,  a 
declaration  that  if  my  brothers  became  great 
men  or  my  sister  a  great  actress,  we  should  not, 
the  whole  lot  of  us,  amount  to  the  value  of  our 
mother's  little  finger.  About  the  theatre  she 
would  say  very  little  and  it  was  a  subject  we 
naturally  avoided.  I  had  a  feeling  that  one  of 
us  might  suddenly,  out  of  sheer  nervousness,  ask 
her  to  recite. 

And  then,  after  a  time,  Sarah  fell  to  talking 
about  actors  and  acting,  and  this  I  take  to  be 
the  finest  politeness  I  have  experienced.  First 
she  had  some  handsome  things  to  say  of  English 
players.  Of  Henry  Irving,  whom  she  called  a 
great  artist  and  a  bad  actor.  She  admired  his 
temperament,  but  his  oddities,  his  uncouthness, 
his  queerness  of  technique  perplexed  her,  and  I 
should  certainly  not  have  trusted  her  to  ap- 
preciate Benson.  Of  Forbes- Robertson,  whose 
Hamlet  she  considered  a  jewel  to  be  worn  on 
the  finger  of  the  poet  himself.  She  talked 
affectionately  of  Coquelin,  "  ce  bon  Coquelin," 
and  admiringly  of  Rejane.  A  very  great 
comedian  she  called  her,  but  rather  resented 
my  suggestion  that  she  had  great  tragic  gifts. 
"  Non,"  she    replied,    "elle    a   la    voix    canaille." 

53 


Alarums  and  Excursions 

And  then  the  conversation  turned  upon  her 
interpretation  of  a  part  which  she  was  then 
playing.  This  was  Lucrecia  Borgia,  of  whom 
I  thought  then,  and  still  think,  her  conception 
wronor.  Her  idea  of  Lucrecia — and  in  this  it 
must  be  admitted  that  she  followed  Hugo's 
lead — ^was  of  a  perfectly  good  woman  with  a 
poisonous  kink.  She  held  that  even  if  Lucrecia 
did  entertain  a  passion  for  murder  she  would  not 
show  her  vice  except  when  viciously  engaged. 
One  remembered  Charles  Peace  fiddling  be- 
tween thefts,  but  without  succeeding  in  thinking 
this  an  apt  reinforcement  for  her.  One  thought, 
too,  of  the  provincial  lady  who  was  accustomed 
to  ofive  a  lecture  to  schoolgirls  on  the  occasion  of 
the  annual  Shakespearean  revisal.  Confronted 
with  Antony  and  Cleopatra  the  lecturer  evaded 
the  difficulties  of  her  subject  by  announcing  that 
she  proposed  to  confine  her  considerations  of  the 
heroine's  character  to  her  aspect  as  a  mother. 
This,  again,  did  not  seem  a  very  suitable  remark, 
and  frankly,  we  did  not  shine. 

Actors  are  always  difficult  to  talk  to.  They 
will  not  realise  that  all  that  matters  is  the  im- 
pression the  spectator  actually  receives  and  that 
he  is  not  influenced  by  what  the  actor  thinks  or 
hopes  he  is  conveying.  If  only  actors  knew  how 
much  of  the  interpreting  is  done  by  the  spectator 
and  how  little  by  themselves  !  We  experienced, 
of  course,  extreme  difficulty  in  putting  it  to  Sarah 
that  what  she  thought  about  Lucrecia  was  of  no 
importance,  that  it  was  only  what  she  made  us 

54 


Sarah  Bernhardt :  A  Postscript 

think  that  mattered.  In  fact  we  could  not  put 
it  at  all.  We  could  only  say  that  she  turned 
Lucrecia  into  a  good-natured  goose  with  un- 
accountable moments.  However,  she  came  to 
the  rescue  with  a  happy  "Eh  bien,  je  vois  que 
9a  ne  vous  plait  pas.  Ou'est-ce  qui  vous  plait 
done  ? "  And  we  tried  to  get  her  to  talk  about 
her  Pelleas,  which  is  the  one  perfect  thing  that 
not  Mademoiselle  Mars,  not  Mademoiselle  Clairon, 
not  ten  thousand  Rachels  could  ever  have  accom- 
plished. She  had  singularly  little  to  say  about 
this,  but  we  put  it  down  to  our  not  having  proved 
ourselves  worthy  to  be  talked  to.  The  thing  we 
would  most  have  instilled  into  our  guest  was  that 
our  admiration  was  critical.  Youthfully  we  had 
long  settled  the  order  of  her  parts.  First  Pelleas, 
the  butt  and  sea-mark  of  her  utmost  sail,  then 
the  world-wearied  Phedre  ;  next  the  Jeanne  d'Arc 
of  inviolate  ecstasy,  and  last  the  Marguerite, 
patchouli'd,  but  still  incredibly  lovely.  We 
wanted  her  to  realise  something  of  this.  Well, 
we  failed. 

We  would  have  read  to  her  the  whole  of  that 
passage  on  art  and  the  artist  which  I  have  given 
in  an  earlier  part  of  this  book.  "  There !  "  we 
would  have  said.  "That's  what  we  think  of  the 
actor's  art,  and  of  the  heights  to  which  only  the 
very  few  are  capable  of  rising.  It's  just  because 
art  is  as  fine  as  all  this  that  you  can  be  so  fine." 
I  think  we  would  have  lectured  her  in  our  young 
enthusiasm,  but  for  the  impossibility  of  throwing 
off  so  tremendous  a  creed  at  a  moment's  notice. 

SS 


Alarums  and  Excursions 

"  Mais,  qu'est-ce  qu'ils  me  chantent,  ces  enfants  ?  " 
she  would  have  exclaimed. 

She  declared  that  she  never  read  dramatic 
criticism  :  *'  Les  critiques  ne  savent  rien."  It  was 
then  that  I  wanted  to  do  something  violent,  to 
induce  in  that  august  head  some  perception  of 
the  discernment  of  which  she  had  been  the  object. 
But  she  was,  I  thought,  a  little  like  some  in- 
tolerant goddess  bored  by  her  worshippers  and 
disinclined  for  nice  distinctions. 

I  tried  to  get  her  to  understand  something  of 
the  overthrow  of  my  small  soul  when  first  I  saw 
her  act.  It  was  on  an  evening  in  July  in  the 
early  nineties.  From  my  place  in  the  queue  I 
could  see  a  long  poster  in  mauve  and  gold, 
spangled  with  silver  stars.  The  ineffability  was 
that  of  Marguerite  Gautier.  It  was  not  for  some 
years  that  I  was  to  hear  how  such  a  common- 
place sentence  as  "  On  nous  abandonne,  et  les 
longues  soirees  succedent  aux  longs  jours,"  could 
be  set  to  such  music  that  it  should  vibrate  in 
the  memory  for  ever.  I  had  yet  to  hear  these 
phrases  dropped  like  stones  into  some  golden 
well  of  felicity.  The  play  that  evening  was  La 
Tosca.  The  wait  was  long.  At  the  hour  of  her 
coming  my  heart  began  to  beat.  I  remember  as 
though  it  were  yesterday  the  opening  of  the  door, 
the  dark,  silent  theatre,  the  second  long  wait,  the 
turning  up  of  the  lights,  the  going  up  of  the 
curtain,  the  exquisite  tenderness  of  the  opening 
scene.  I  remember  the  setting  of  the  candles 
round  the  body  of  Scarpia,  and  that  is  all.  I  next 
56 


Sarah  Bernhardt '-  A  Postscript 

saw  the  actress  in  Fedora,  and  shortly  afterwards 
in  Frou-frou  and  Adrienne  Lecouvreur.  La  Dame 
aux  Camdias  followed  about  1898.  All  these 
were  in  Manchester ;  and  then  came  the  time 
when  I  went  to  Paris  frequently  and  saw  her 
often.  There  was  always  great  difficulty  in 
getting  a  glimpse  of  her  Phedre.  The  actress 
seemed  wilfully  to  prefer  rubbish,  and  both  Phedre 
and  Pelleas  were  difficult  birds  to  bring  down. 
When,  finally,  one  saw  it  there  was  the  further 
difficulty  of  finding  any  French  critic  up  to  writing 
adequately  about  it.  Once  more  I  turn  up  my 
little  hand-book  and  read  again  what  the  late 
W.  T.  Arnold  wrote  forty  years  ago  : 

"  Could  anything  have  been  more  deliciously 
poetical  than  that  kindling  eager  eye,  the  hand 
slowly  stretched  out,  and  the  finger  pointing  into 
space,  as  Phedre  sees  before  her  half  in  a  dream 
the  chariot  '  fuyant  dans  la  carriere  '  ?  The  great 
Phedre  has  hitherto  been  that  of  Rachel.  It  is 
useless  to  dilate  upon  Rachel's  tragic  power. 
Her  performance  alike  in  the  second  and  in  the 
fourth  acts  is  declared  by  all  competent  critics 
to  have  been  all  but  perfection.  The  doubtful 
question  is  rather  whether  she  was  capable  of 
rendering  the  tenderness  and  the  infinite  piteous- 
ness  of  the  hapless  woman  as  she  rendered  her 
transports  of  passion.  We  can  conceive  Rachel 
as  having  been  better  than  Madame  Bernhardt 
in  the  denunciation  of  CEnone,  and,  indeed, 
M.   Sarcey,  in  his  notice  of  the  performance  of 

57 


Alarums  and  Excursions 

Phedre  by  the  Comedie  Frangaise  intimates  that 
she  was  so  ;  but  we  should  like  to  know  how 
Rachel  said  such  passages  as  this : 

'  Ginone,    il    peut    quitter    cet    orgueil    qui    te 

blesse  ; 
Nourri  dans  les  forets,  il  en  a  la  rudesse. 
Hippolyte,  endurci  par  de  sauvages  lois, 
Entend  parler  d'amour  pour  la  premiere  fois : 
Peut-etre  sa  surprise  a  cause  son  silence  ; 
Et  nos  plaintes  peut-etre  ont  trop  de  violence.' 

The  inexpressible  tenderness  with  which  those 
lines  were  sighed  rather  than  spoken  was  all 
Madame  Bernhardt's  own.     This  line  again  : 

•  Et  I'espoir  malgre  moi  s'est  glisse  dans  mon  coeur.' 

And  this,  when  she  has  discovered  the  love  of 
Hippolyte  and  Aricie,  and  contrasts  their  affection 
with  her  own  guilty  passion  : 

'  Tous    les   jours    se    levoient    clairs   et   sereins 
pour  eux.' 

These  were  the  passages  Madame  Bernhardt 
marked  with  the  most  personal  and  enduring 
charm,  and  in  these  we  cannot  believe  that  she 
has  not  surpassed  her  forerunners." 

And  then  came  the  time,  about  1908,  when  I 
was  first  privileged  to  write  about  her.  I  have 
written  elsewhere  all  that  I  ever  intend  to  write. 
What  more  is  there  to  be  said  of  that  quick  and 
frenzied  diction,  that  foam  and  spate  of  speech 
58 


Sarah  Bernhardt :  A  Postscript 

alternating  with  pools  of  liquid  bliss?  What 
more  of  those  plumbed  depths  of  abasement,  those 
scaled  yet  unimaginable  heights  of  remorse,  that 
fury  of  immolation  tearing  its  own  flanks  as  the 
tiger  "  rends  with  those  so  awful  paws  the  velvet 
of  the  breeding  hind  "  ?  Where  earlier  actresses 
have  been  content  with  a  molten  and  brassy 
horror,  Bernhardt's  passion  has  taken  on  the 
fragrance  of  bruised  violets.  None  other  could 
suffer  as  she  did.  Rachel  may  have  exceeded 
her  in  terror  ;  she  cannot  have  surpassed  her  in 
inviolacy  and  immaculacy,  in  rapt  and  mystical 
purity.  Bernhardt  did  not  use  to  die  so  much  as 
to  swoon  upon  death.  "  Combiensont  morts  qui, 
moins  heureux  que  vous,  n'ont  pas  meme  donne 
un  seul  baiser  a  leur  chimere ! "  Her  beloved 
Rostand  asks  the  same  question  : 

"  Combien, 
Moins  heureux,  epuises  d'une  poursuite  vaine, 
Meurent  sans  avoir  vu  leur  Princesse  lointaine." 

And  Melissinde  replies  : 

"Combien,    aussi,    I'ont    trop    tot    vue,    et     trop 

longtemps, 
Et  ne  meurent  qu'apres  les  jours  desenchantants  !  " 

Yet  none  of  this  is  true  of  Bernhardt.  She 
has  embraced  the  glory  and  the  dream.  She 
has  measured  herself  with  destiny  and  touched 
the  lips  of  her  desire.  Her  acting  is  now  an 
affair  of  the  spirit,  the  victory  of  the  incorruptible. 
For    victory    it    is,     victory    over    the     fraying 

S9 


Alarums  and  Excursions 

scabbard,  victory  in  the  dauntless  survival  of  the 
soul  of  steel,  the  will  to  persist,  quand  nieme. 
One  picture  springs  to  the  mind.  It  is  the  trans- 
figuration of  Lear : 

"  I  will  do  such  things — 
What  they  are,  yet  I  know  not ;  but  they  shall  be 
The  terrors  of  the  earth." 

Substitute  for  terrors,  wonders ;  then  picture 
this  valiant  woman  still  wresting  a  last  late  secret 
from  her  art.  Can  we  not  see  the  trust  put  in 
us  here  to  read  by  the  spirit  those  ardours,  perils, 
and  adventures  which  may  no  longer  be  expressed 
save  by  the  spirit  }  Yet  be  sure  of  this,  that  as  no 
quarter  is  asked  so  none  will  be  given.  If  this 
acting  of  to-day  mislikes  you,  you  must  be  pre- 
pared to  say  that  at  the  player's  hey-day  you  had 
also  been  displeased  ;  for  of  genius  it  is  the  spirit 
and  not  the  body  which  matters.  Of  this  artist 
all  that  is  left  is  spirit.  She  has  bent  her  will  to 
battle  with  doom  and  death.  She  has,  to  echo 
Charlotte  Bronte,  fought  every  inch  of  ground, 
sold  every  drop  of  blood,  resisted  to  the  latest 
the  rape  of  every  faculty,  has  willed  to  see,  has 
willed  to  hear,  has  willed  to  breathe,  has  willed  to 
live  up  to,  within,  and  even  beyond  the  moment 
when  death  to  any  less  fiery  spirit  had  said : 
"  Thus  far  and  no  farther !  " 

Can  it  not  be  realised  that  it  was  something  of 
all  this  that  we  wanted,  and  failed  so  lamentably, 
to  say.-*  We  wanted  to  tell  her  that  we  knew. 
Did  she  know,  I  wonder }  As  she  drove  away 
60 


Sarah  Bernhardt :  A  Postscript 

she  said  something  to  my  mother  which  we  did 
not  hear.  The  carriage  receded  and  she  waved 
her  flowers.  There  was  a  look  of  grave  amuse- 
ment in  her  eyes,  something  of  the  memory  and 
the  kinship  of  youth. 


6i 


Big  Pugs  and  Little 

The  high  and  heroic  state  of  man. 
Hazlitt. 

THE  refusal  of  a  leading  promoter  of  box- 
ing shows  to  magnoperate  on  behalf  of 
principals  who  fail  to  carry  out  their 
contracts  is  a  shrewder  blow  than  these  gentle- 
men are  accustomed  to  receive  even  from  one 
of  their  own  kidney.  It  may  mean  the  end  of 
boxing  as  a  fashionable  entertainment,  and  should 
bring  to  their  senses  gladiators  accustomed  to 
receive  for  half-an-hour's  play  of  thew  and  sinew 
the  reward  of  a  Prime  Minister's  brains.  But 
not  all  boxers  are  simple  virtuosos  in  brawn. 
Carpentier  is  one  of  the  exquisite  figures  of  our 
time ;  no  handsomer  or  more  intelligent  actor 
graces  those  other  boards.  There  is  in  his 
manner  towards  an  opponent  something  of 
Hamlet's  "  What's  his  weapon  ?  "  What  weapon 
indeed  has  British  stolidity  to  counter  Gallic 
wits  .-*  Bull-dog  courage  ?  Alas,  in  this  mimic 
warfare  as  in  the  real,  it  is  not  elemental  virtue 
which  prevails.  Ask  the  British  champion,  Mr 
Joseph  Beckett.  I  have  a  deal  of  respect  for 
Mr  Joe — he  should  have  been  surnamed  Oak- 
tree.  He  is  own  brother  to  that  Michael  of 
whom  it  has  been  written  that  though  he  will 
not  bend  he  breaks  with  comparative  ease.  No 
Adonis  resting  neat-gloved  hands  upon  the  ropes 
and  treading  the  powdered  resin  into  his  shoes 
can  make  Joe  bend.  There  is  purpose  here. 
Bull-dog  that  he  is,  he  will  not  let  go,  though 
he  bite  nothing  better  than  the  dust.  We 
62 


Big  Pugs  and  Little 

English  have  not  been  without  our  figure  of 
admiration,  but  the  very  thought  of  combat  has 
made  our  Crichton  cry  out  with  Troilus  :  "  I  am 
giddy  ;  expectation  whirls  me  round."  And  thus 
to  offer  an  easy  mark  to  a  more  stable  foe. 

Of  all  the  prize-fights — for  let  us  be  honest 
and  call  things  by  their  proper  names — of  recent 
years,  the  one  that  has  excited  me  most  was 
that  between  the  Bombardier  and  Joe.  Other 
fights  I  remember  vividly  enough  though  not 
with  the  same  passion.  There  was  Welsh's 
cold  and  scientific  defeat  of  Ritchie,  and  Car- 
pentier's  lucky  win  over  Gunboat  Smith.  Both 
events  took  place  at  Olympia  shortly  before 
the  war,  and  drew  their  quota  of  fashionable 
ladies  and  elegant  trollops,  gold-toothed  niggers, 
fops,  clergymen,  shop  -  assistants,  artists.  At 
this  "venue" — as  the  newspapers  call  it  when 
the  prices  are  high  enough — was  the  "clash" 
between  Jimmy  Wilde  and  Pal  Moore,  the  fight- 
ing a  foregone  conclusion  to  that  ardent  sup- 
porter and  Celtic  soul  who  brought  from  his  native 
coal-fields  an  enormous  dragon-embroidered  flag 
with  which  to  cover  victor  and  vanquished  in 
one  hurly-burly  of  confusion  and  glory.  Jimmy 
is  no  longer  the  wistful  figure  of  frailty  he  once 
was.  I  have  an  early  photograph  in  which  he 
wears  his  yonderly  expression,  that  air  of  "not 
being  strong."  His  features  at  the  time  had 
well  adorned  the  fly-leaf  of  a  story  by  George 
Macdonald.  There  was  the  remote,  faint  at- 
mosphere of  the  Sunday  school  about  him  ;    he 

63 


Alarums  and  Excursions 

was  a  Donal  Grant,  an  Alec  Forbes,  a  youthful 
Marquis  of  Lossie.  To  judge  by  the  colour  of 
his  hands,  the  little  fellow  might  have  posed 
after  a  day's  work  in  the  mine.  Or  say  that 
he  had  been  put  up  in  his  buff  to  fight  a  bully — 
the  sport  of  some  Saturday  afternoon.  Forked 
radish  were  too  much  a  symbol  of  mass  to 
denote  his  physique  of  those  days.  To-day  Mr 
Wilde  takes  his  oysters  and  his  champagne  like 
a  man.  He  fills  his  clothes  and  so  shrinks  to 
life-size.  He  has  ceased  to  be  the  wonder  and 
the  marvel  of  the  age  ;  he  is  no  longer  miraculous. 
He  ranks  with  the  world's  workaday  talents, 
with  Hambourg,  Hobbs,  and  Lasker,  rather  than 
with  Chaplin,  Nijinsky,  Donoghue.  He  has  be- 
come reckonable  ;  he  does  the  things  grown  men 
may  do  and  not  those  which  it  were  unthinkable 
a  child  should  attempt.  Other  great  events  of 
the  ring  have  I  seen — ^Jim  Driscoll's  "tragedy"  ; 
Basham's  woeful  attempt  to  stand  up  against 
"  Kid "  Lewis ;  that  hero's  eighteen  seconds' 
dismissal  of  "  Frankie "  Moody;  the  unreflec- 
tive  pitting  of  rival  beeves  which  was  the  fight 
between  Goddard  and  Moran  ;  Beckett's  long- 
drawn  agonies  with  M'Goorty  and  McCormick  ; 
encounters  Blackfriars  way,  where,  in  the  ring, 
the  blood  is  up  indeed  and,  on  the  surrounding 
benches,  admiration  struggles  with  cupidity  in 
the  sharp-set,  cunning  faces  of  the  "butchers 
from  Tothill  Fields,  brokers  from  Whitechapel." 

Yet  not  one  of  these  matches  had  the  same 
quality  of  apprehension  as  the  Wells- Beckett 
64 


Big  Pugs  and  Little 

affair.  The  issue  was  never  in  doubt  and  yet 
seemed  dreadfully  to  matter.  It  were  a  sane 
thing-  to  suggest  that  the  issue  of  the  battle  of 
Jutland  was  fraught  with  graver  consequences 
than  this  clash  of  pugs.  May  the  Bombardier 
forgive  me ;  but  he  is  that,  in  spite  of  his 
auburn,  close-curled  hair,  his  courtesy  and  charm. 
Phoebus  Apollo  turned  Promethean  pug.  Yet 
will  I  swear  that  our  breaths  came  more  quickly 
during"  those  few  short  rounds  than  with  the 
scene  set  for  the  overthrow  of  a  great  navy. 
It  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  the  hearts  of 
boxers  beat  as  fast  as  those  of  their  idolaters. 
Wells  gives  you  the  impression  that  his  heart 
has  long  ceased  to  beat.  He  is  fey,  he  cannot 
win ;  he  will  stave  off  defeat,  gallantly,  for 
an  all  too  small  number  of  rounds.  He  is 
"an  absolute  gentleman,  full  of  most  excellent 
differences,  of  very  soft  society  and  great 
showing." 

And  that  is  why  he  is  foredoomed.  He  has 
everything  that  a  gentleman  should  have  and 
nothing  that  a  prize-fighter  must  own.^  He 
makes  pretence  to  defy  augury  ;  yet  he  knows 
that  if  defeat  be  not  now,  it  will  come  at  the 
end.  What  is  it  then  to  lose  betimes  ?  Not 
much  to  him,  perhaps,  but  to  his  friends  an 
abiding  sorrow.     About  Mr  Joe  there  is  no  air 

*  In  his  book  Carpentier  wrote  :  "  Wells  is  without  what  I  call  person- 
ality—a fighting  personality."  He  goes  on  to  explain  that  to  worry  and 
jolly  an  opponent,  to  get  on  his  mind  as  an  obsession  in  the  days  of 
preparation  before  a  match,  is  part  of  the  "  psychology  "  of  the  game. 
But  then  (ieorges  had  been  staying  in  America. 

E  65 


Alarums  and  Excursions 

of  mystery.  He  glowers  in  his  corner,  and 
pecrino"  through  little  screwed-up  eyes,  would 
seem  to  glimpse  a  big  thing  in  front  of  him, 
to  see  it  and  bend  up  every  corporal  agent  to 
do  it.  For  the  rest  he  is  a  plain,  blunt  man, 
slow  to  give  or  take  offence. 

One  of  the  most  deeply  rooted  things  in  the 
English  character  is  the  love  of  sailors  and  of  prize- 
fighters. "Almost  everybody  in  our  land,  except 
humanitarians  and  a  few  persons  whose  youth  has 
been  depressed  by  exceptional  aesthetic  surround- 
ings, can  understand  and  sympathise  with  an 
admiral  or  a  prize-fighter.  I  do  not  wish  to 
bracket  Benbow  and  Tom  Cribb ;  but,  depend 
upon  it,  they  are  practically  bracketed  for  admira- 
tion in  the  minds  of  many  frequenters  of  ale- 
houses. If  you  told  them  about  Germanicus  and 
the  eagles,  or  Regulus  going  back  to  Carthage, 
they  would  very  likely  fall  asleep,  but  tell  them 
about  Harry  Pearce  and  Jem  Belcher,  or  about 
Nelson  and  the  Nile,  and  they  put  down  their 
pipes  to  listen,"     So  Stevenson. 

And  thus  it  came  about  that  on  the  night  of 
combat  all  roads  led  to  Olympia.  The  previous 
day  had  been  Sunday,  and  Sunday's  peace  had 
been  routed  by  the  din  of  the  impending  conflict. 
You  could  not  pick  up  a  news-sheet  without 
having  it  forced  upon  you  that  Mr  Wells  was 
"quietly  confident,"  and  that  Mr  Beckett  was  in 
the  habit  of  saying  nothing  but  grimly  shooting 
out  his  lips.  The  men  themselves  do  not 
advertise.  But  the  newspapers  have  their  self- 
66 


Big  Pugs  and  Little 

respect,  bless  you,  and  see  to  it  that  heroes  lose 
nothing  by  a  Quakerish  reserve.  They  make 
wonderful  play  with  the  "human  interest,"  do 
our  papers,  with  Mr  Beckett's  stolidity  and 
Mr  Wells's  nerves. 

"  As  fiddlers  they  are  bad,  but  then, 
Consider  what  they  are  as  men." 

As  champions,  judged  by  the  old  standard,  both 
our  heroes  are  poor,  and  Mace  and  Belcher  must 
be  tired  of  turning  in  their  graves  at  the  com- 
parisons which  have  been  made.  "  Under- 
standing and  sympathy  "  indeed  it  must  be  which 
drags  a  mayor  from  his  council-chamber  to  set 
a  champion  on  his  way,  and  places  at  the  disposal 
of  a  pair  of  maulers  the  nation's  telegraphs, 
telephones,  and  police.  People  there  were  who 
grumbled,  but  in  this  country  we  take  no  notice 
of  the  curmudgeon.  An  the  authorities  seek 
sanction  for  their  exuberance  they  will  find  it  in 
Sir  William  Temple's  "Whether  it  be  wise  in 
men  to  do  such  actions  or  no,  I  am  sure  it  is  so 
in  States  to  honour  them."  To  my  mind  no 
sanction  is  needed  beyond  the  people's  pleasure. 
Arrangements  were  made  to  flash  the  news  of 
the  result  all  over  England, 

"  Till  Belvoir's  lordly  terraces  the  sign  to  Lincoln 

sent, 
And   Lincoln  sped  the  message  on  o'er  the  wide 

Vale  of  Trent, 

67 


Alaru?}is  and  Excursions 

Till  Skiddaw  saw  the  fire  that  burned  on  Gaunt's 

embattled  pile, 
And     the     red     c^lare    on    Skiddaw    roused    the 

burghers  of  .   .   .   Southampton." 

But  on  Solent's  shore  that  fateful  night  there 
was  no  question  of  "retiring"  until  the  screen 
had  spoken.  On  this  momentous  night  no  lad 
throuofhout  the  length  and  breadth  of  the  land 
went  ignorant  to  bed  ;  in  the  London  clubs,  at 
two  in  the  morning,  peers  of  the  realm  fought  the 
battle  over  again,  whereby  certain  noble  benches 
remained  untenanted  for  days.  In  the  morning 
every  old  gentleman  whose  heart  was  still  sound 
turned  first  in  his  paper  to  the  news  that  mattered  ; 
duchesses  and  dowagers  rang  for  their  gossip 
betimes.  All  hearts  were  with  Wells.  "  I  have 
taken  the  depth  of  the  water,"  said  Admiral 
Duncan,  "and  when  the  Venerable  goes  down 
my  Hag  will  still  Hy."  The  Bombardier  knew 
that  he  must  go  down  ;  but  he  had  taken  the 
depth  of  public  esteem  and  knew  also  that  his 
flag  would  still  be  flying. 

Wells  is  no  coward  ;  he  is  not  nervous  in  the 
sense  that  he  fears  defeat.  It  is  the  thought  of 
victory  which  unmans  him.  He  is  like  the 
cricketer  fainting  on  the  verge  of  a  century,  who 
faced  the  first  ball  without  a  tremor.  History 
does  not  lack  instances  ;  so  Hackenschmidt  when 
he  beat  Madrali.  A  journalist  of  the  period  tells 
us  that  as  the  wrestlers  were  due  to  leave  their 
dressing-rooms  the  news  went  round  that  the 
68 


Big  Pugs  and  Little 

great  Russian  had  an  attack  of  nerves.  His 
stomach  was  wrong !  They  were  anointing  him 
with  alcohol!  He  was  faint!  He  was  trem- 
bling !  And  yet  you  would  have  sworn  the  huge 
fellow's  nerves  to  be  those  of  an  ox.  "It  may  be 
that  coarse  metals  are  less  flexible  than  finer ; 
certain  it  is  that  they  do  not  well  cohere."  It 
may  be  that  this  is  true  in  mineralogy — philolo- 
gists will  know  whether  I  mean  metallurgy — it  is 
not  true  in  men.  Wells  was  the  finer  metal  of 
the  two,  finer  in  the  sense  of  being  the  more 
sensitive,  but  it  was  Beckett  who  cohered  and 
Wells  who,  in  sporting  parlance,  came  unstuck. 
But  then  he  had  gone  to  pieces  before  the  fight 
began.  "  It's  St  Paul's  agin  the  blinkin' 
Monument,"  said  a  tough,  "and  the  blinkin' 
Monument'll  crack."  It  is  said  that  the  champion, 
shooting  out  his  lips,  pushed  aside  one  of  his 
seconds  who  was  framing  to  ascend  the  steps 
before  him.  I  did  not  notice  this.  What  I  did 
observe  was  a  self-hypnotised  Wells  rooted  to 
earth  at  the  ring-side,  his  seconds  patting  the 
ladder  to  encourage  him  to  mount.  He  was 
morally  defenceless ;  it  was  as  though  his  op- 
ponent held  a  sword  of  fire  in  his  hand  against 
an  unarmed  body. 

And  yet  he  did  pretty  well ;  he  returned  blow 
for  blow,  stalled  off  ruin,  raised  hopes,  was 
battered  to  his  knees.  "  There  was  little 
cautious  sparring — no  half  hits — no  tapping  and 
trifling,  none  of  the  petit-maitreship  of  the  art — 
they   were    almost   all    knock-down    blows ;     the 

69 


ALirums  and  Excursions 

tij4lu  was  a  j;ood  stand-up  fight.  To  see  two 
men  smashed  to  the  ground,  smeared  with  gore, 
stunned,  senseless,  the  breath  beaten  out  of 
their  bodies  ;  and  then,  before  you  could  recover 
from  the  shock,  to  see  them  rise  up  with  new 
strength  and  courage,  stand  steady  to  inflict  or 
receive  mortal  offence  and  rush  upon  each  other 
'  like  two  clouds  over  the  Caspian  ' — this  is  the 
most  astonishing  thing  of  all  :  this  is  the  high 
and  heroic  state  of  man  !  " 

What  is  the  secret  of  the  hold  Wells  has  over 
the  British  public  ?  Why  do  we  lean  so  tenderly 
to  this  reed  shaken  by  the  wind  of  every  fighter's 
fist  ?  Why,  when  the  boards  "  received  his  hams 
and  body,"  as  a  Georgian  poet  has  it,  did  they 
receive  one  who  was  still  a  national  hero? 
Perhaps  it  is  because  his  is  the  head  upon 
which  "all  the  ends  of  the  world  are  come." 
Perhaps,  mischievously,  because  the  beauty  of 
Wells  is  a  beauty  wrought  out  from  within  upon 
the  flesh,  the  deposit,  little  cell  by  cell,  of  strange 
thoughts  and  fantastic  reveries.  Set  it  for  a 
moment  beside  one  of  those  tall  goddesses  and 
beautiful  heroines  of  antiquity,  and  how  would 
they  be  troubled  by  this  beauty,  into  which  the 
soul  with  all  its  maladies  has  passed.  Like  the 
vampire  he  has  been  outed  many  times,  and 
learned  the  secrets  of  the  grave  ;  and  has  been 
a  diver  in  deep  seas,  and  keeps  their  fallen  day 
about  him ;  and  trafficked  for  strange  belts  with 
fighting  P^'renchmen  ;  and  all  this  has  been  to 
him  but  as  the  sound  of  lyres  and  flutes.  .  .  . 
70 


Big  Pugs  and  Little 

They  wrapped  Wells  up  in  that  dolorous 
dressing-gown  which  it  is  his  wont  to  doff  so 
hopefully  when  the  lights  go  up,  and  to  don  so 
hopelessly  when  his  light  is  out.  But  virtue  and 
comfort  remain  in  its  folds ;  it  will  ever  be 
cheered  in  the  four  corners  of  the  land  ;  and  he 
will  still  be  a  bold  fighter  in  whose  honour  the 
seconds  take  it  in  their  charge.  "  It  hurts,"  said 
Wells's  chief  supporter  after  the  fight.  "  It  hurts, 
but  there  can't  be  two  winners."  This  is  the 
philosophy  proper  to  the  occasion.  So  Peter 
Jackson,  negro  and  gentleman,  after  he  had 
knocked  out  Slavin. 

Jackson  :    Good-night,    Paddy.     There  can't  be 

two  winners,  but  good  luck  to  you. 
Slavin  :  Good-night,  Peter. 

But  it  is  the  smaller  fry  towards  whom  my 
heart  more  particularly  leans.  It  is  meat  and 
drink  to  me  to  see  a  second-rater.  One  gets 
tired  of  the  big  men,  of  their  preening  and 
peacocking,  of  their  portentousness.  I  mislike 
the  air  of  coming  down  to  the  arena  horsed  by 
captive  kings.  There  is  too  much  solemnity  at 
Olympia,  and  the  crowd  is  too  well  behaved.  In 
the  smaller  booths  the  little  chaps  dive  in  and 
out  of  the  ring  like  fishes,  without  ceremony  at 
the  start,  without  too  great  a  degree  of  elation 
or  discomforture  at  the  finish.  It  would  seem 
sometimes  as  though  getting  down  to  weight 
were  with  them  not  a  part  of  training  but  an 
economic  shift.     They  can   be  desperately  thin. 

71 


Alarums  and  Excursions 

They  are  of  all  trades — blacksmiths,  porters, 
tishmoni^ers,  newsboys — but  common  to  them 
all  are  the  badges  of  the  heroic  profession — the 
matted  hair  plastered  low  on  the  narrow  forehead, 
the  ringed  and  shaven  neck,  the  felicitous  devices 
of  the  tattooist.  Stunted  though  they  may  be  in 
intelligence,  these  budding  bruisers  can  never  be 
as  inept  as  the  polite  young  gentlemen  who 
posture  in  revue.  I  cannot  imagine  a  more 
honourable  career  than  to  knock-out  and  be 
knocked-out ;  I  cannot  conceive  a  less  noble  one 
than  to  loll  life  away  on  plush  divans  in  company 
with  eleven  other  scented  and  manicured  little 
masters.  I  am  conscious  of  some  unfairness  here. 
What  alternative  is  there  for  the  beauty-chorister  ? 
Selling  gloves  over  a  counter,  making  up  posies 
at  the  florist's,  barbering — all  these  demand  a 
higher  education.  Clerking  calls  for  greater 
intelligence,  and  portering  for  greater  industry. 
We  should,  perhaps,  be  prepared  to  forgive  these 
little  manikins  that  they  jig,  amble  and  lisp ; 
they  might  starve  else.  But  their  principals ! 
Consider  the  highly-paid  hero  of  musical  comedy 
who  sings  a  ditty  in  lawn-tennis  flannels  and 
yachting  cap,  and  a  different  ditty — the  composer 
tells  us  it  is  a  different  ditty— in  dress-clothes 
and  an  opera-hat.  Strip  him  of  flannels  and 
dress-clothes  and,  bless  me,  how  little  remarkable 
he  would  look  !  Strip  your  boxer,  and  he  rises  to 
the  pristine  dignity  of  man.  Clothe  him,  and  he 
falls  from  his  high  estate.  The  queasy  cap,  the 
muffler,  the  coat  with  three  buttons  crowded 
72 


Big  Pugs  and  Little 

together  in  the  pit  of  the  stomach,  the  tight 
trousers,  the  boots  of  soft  uppers  and  snubbed 
toecaps — what  uniform  of  degradation  is  this  ! 

Boxers  are  those  who,  clothed,  are  in  their 
wrong  mind.  Strippen  out  of  rude  array,  they 
are  men  who  reaHse  that  complete  ferocity  may 
go  hand  in  hand  with  perfect  amity.  I  remem- 
ber being  present  at  a  small  provincial  show  at 
which  a  lad  was  disqualified  for  biting.  There 
was  the  usual  uproar  ;  the  livery  of  shame  was 
declared  thenceforth  the  offender's  only  wear ; 
there  was  talk  of  taking  away  his  living.  After 
the  fight  I  took  occasion  to  touch  delicately, 
gingerly  even,  upon  the  subject  of  his  trespass. 
The  lad  assured  me  with  many  fervent  protesta- 
tions that  he  had  been  totally  unconscious  of  the 
action.  He,  if  I  may  so  express  it,  "  sw'elp-me'd," 
into  conviction  of  his  moral  innocence.  "Besides," 
said  he,  "lor'  lumme,  /  were  winnin  anyow! 
Got  'im  set,  I  'ad.  Easy !  There'd  'av  bin  no 
sense  in  bitin',  an'  that.  I  must  'a  wanted  to 
knock  the  grin  off  'is  ugly  dial,  see  ?  Sw'elp 
me,  that's  stright !  That's  'ow  I  looks  at  it, 
see?  Wivout  finkin'."  And  surely,  wilful  bit- 
ing under  extreme  excitement  is  more  the  act 
of  a  sportsman  than  the  cold-blooded  consent 
to  rig  a  fight.  Perhaps  these  small  shows  are 
least  admirable  in  their  best-paid  bouts,  and  it 
may  be  that  any  but  the  strongest  of  referees 
would  be  chary  of  disqualifying  a  dirty  fighter 
with  a  popular  following.  I  once  saw  a  French 
boxer,  proffering  a  helping  hand  to  one  of  our 

73 


Alarums  and  Excursions 

own  I)rutcs  half-toppled  through  and  tangled-up 
in  the  ropes,  rewarded  with  a  vicious  blow  in  the 
mouth.  But  the  Frenchman  was  equal  to  the 
occasion.  "Si  c'est  comme  9a!"  he  said,  with 
a  shrug,  and  resigned  the  fight.  The  referee 
at  these  contests  must  needs  be  a  man  of  cour- 
age ;  a  ginger-beer  bottle  hurled  from  the  gallery 
is  a  formidable  missile.  A  man  of  courage  he 
is,  then,  an  Olympian  with  a  thunderbolt  in 
each  hand.  And  when  a  dazed  and  beaten 
man  hangs  helpless  on  the  ropes,  and  in  the 
din  no  voice  can  make  itself  heard  ;  when,  in 
this  extremity,  he  bids  Time  advance  a  full 
minute  and  strike  upon  the  bell,  then  is  it  with 
the  thronged  circle  of  spectators  as  though  an- 
other Joshua  had  arisen  to  order  the  sun  to  heel. 


74 


Swan  and  Dragon-Fly 

THE  critic  is  bound  from  time  to  time  to 
declare  some  standard  to  which  his  judg- 
ments are  referable.  This  in  pure  un- 
selfishness, that  he  may  bring  into  play  the  reader's 
own  power  of  deduction  and  interpretation  ;  in 
expediency,  that,  when  the  curtain  falls  too  late 
for  him  to  go  to  the  root  of  the  matter,  he  may 
be  taken  on  trust.  The  critic  who  always  insists 
on  a  preliminary  of  first  principles  may  be  a 
nuisance,  but  he  should  not  be  above  boring 
his  readers  now  and  again,  especially  when  it 
is  for  his  good  as  well  as  theirs.  When,  re- 
cently, Madame  Pavlova  reappeared  in  London 
after  an  absence  of  six  years,  our  critics  asked 
to  be  taken  on  trust  to  a  man.  They  assured 
us  that  there  were  many  dancers  but  only  one 
Pavlova,  that  she  was  still  the  adorable  and 
adored  Pavlova,  that  no  good  purpose  could  by 
any  possibility  be  served  by  a  detailed  analysis 
of  so  much  pure  and  unadulterated  joy  as 
Pavlova  commanded.  The  grounds  of  this  artist's 
peculiar  adorableness  were  not  stated,  nor  was 
there  any  word  as  to  the  manner  in  which  the 
pure  joy  evoked  by  her  resembled  or  differed 
from  the  unadulterated  delight  imparted  by  Kar- 
savina,  the  incomparable  ecstasy  of  Lopokova, 
the  rapture  of  Tchernicheva.  Now  it  may  be 
that  criticism  by  people  who  know  all  there  is 
to  be  known  about  the  art  of  dancing,  does  not 
need  to  be  reasoned,  and  may  be  taken  largely 
on  trust.  I,  who  know  nothing  about  that 
art,  prefer    to    try  my   hand    at   finding    in    first 

75 


Alarums  and  Excursions 

principles  common  to  all  arts  a  reasonable  key  to 
my  unreasonable  admiration  of  Pavlova.  Here 
let  me  confess  to  an  inability  to  regard  the  old- 
fashioned  ballet,  pitchforked  into  the  middle  of 
an  opera,  as  anything  but  a  pure  and  simple 
irrelevance,  or  distraction  for  elderly  satyrs. 
This  may  be  nonsense,  but  it  was  also  Balzac's 
view.  In  this  school  not  dancing,  but  the 
dancer,  is  exploited.  Its  technique  interests 
me  just  about  as  much  and  in  exactly  the  same 
way  as  the  technique  of  the  haute  dcole  of  the 
circus-master.  A  premiere  danseuse  taking  three 
hundred  steps  to  cross  the  stage,  thereafter 
with  the  fixed  smile  of  the  marionette  to  stand 
interminably  a-tiptoe,  provokes  in  me  the  same 
quality  of  amazement  as  when  a  horse  curtsies 
or,  erect  on  its  haunches,  paws  at  vacancy.  In 
neither  case  are  the  emotions  aroused,  whereas 
the  function  of  the  dancer,  as  distinct  from  the 
acrobat,  is  to  arouse  them  very  definitely. 

"It  is  a  mistake  to  regard  poetry,  music,  and 
painting" — one  mentally  adds  dancing — "as  but 
translations  into  different  languages  of  one  and 
the  same  fixed  quantity  of  imaginative  thought, 
supplemented  by  certain  technical  qualities  of 
colour  in  painting,  of  sound  in  music,  of  rhymical 
words  in  poetry.  .  .  .  Each  art  brings  with  it  a 
special  phase  or  quality  of  beauty,  untranslatable 
into  the  forms  of  any  other,  an  order  of  impressions 
distinct  in  kind."  So  Pater,  voicing  the  incon- 
trovertible principle  underlying  all  criticism.  The 
arts  are  so  many  passports  to  beauty,  as  strictly 
76 


Swan  and  Dragon-Fly 

non-transferable  as  the  return  halves  of  railway 
tickets.  The  moment  you  ask  of  a  picture,  a 
symphony  or  a  dance:  "What  does  it  mean?" 
you  are  asking  for  an  expression  in  words,  in 
terms  of  literature,  of  what  the  artist  by  his  choice 
of  medium  has  already  declared  to  be  inexpress- 
ible save  in  the  terms  of  painting,  music,  and 
dancing.  A  painter  would  sooner  explain  a 
picture  to  you  by  painting  something  else ;  a 
musician  one  sonata  by  playing  you  another. 
The  finding  of  tongues  in  painted  trees,  books 
in  painted  brooks,  and  sermons  in  the  stones  of 
Venice  is  simple  wrong-headedness.  The  writer 
must  not  hope  to  convey  in  printed  symbols  the 
exact  emotion  created  by  the  dancer  when,  as 
the  Swan,  she  sinks  flutteringly  to  rest,  or,  as  the 
Gipsy,  lays  her  despair  upon  the  ground,  letting 
sorrow  ebb  in  the  ripple  of  her  arms. 

The  greatest  dancing,  first  principles  tell  us, 
must  be  that  of  the  premiere  danseuse,  that  art 
so  formal  and  self-contained,  as  little  heedful  of 
any  aim,  other  than  the  expression  of  itself,  as  a 
page  of  Henry  James  or  the  Japanese  decoration 
of  a  fan.  There  may  be  a  world  behind  these 
things,  but  it  is  a  faint,  unreal  world,  and  our 
immediate  delight  is  in  the  thing  itself,  an 
exquisite  baffling  thing  filling  us  with  the  sense 
of  not  being  able  to  catch  up.  Whereas  the 
great  dancers  throw  such  an  art  boldly  over ; 
their  dances  are  to  interpret,  to  mean,  ih  the  fatal 
sense,  in  the  same  way  that  Strauss  declared  Also 
Sprach   Zarathustra   to    mean    the   development 

77 


Alarums  and  Excursions 

of  ihc  human  race  up  to  Nietzsche  and  the 
Uebermensch.  Here  we  come  upon  a  paradox. 
The  <;Teatest  dancing  refuses  adherence  to  first 
principles,  declines  to  remain  absolute,  and 
positively  insists  upon  humbling  itself  to  the 
position  of  interpreter,  the  decently-garbed 
attendant  showing  you  through  the  habitation 
of  some  more  magnificent  muse.  The  greatest 
dancers  are  not  content  to  remain  dancers  ;  they 
will  be  actors  as  well.  Perhaps  it  is  that  they 
are  not  the  orreatest  dancers  of  all,  that  their 
absence  of  detachment  and  the  complication  of 
human  interest  removes  them  from  the  higher 
and  colder  sphere.  Certain  it  is  that  Pavlova 
moves  you  in  a  purely  human  way,  sending  the 
mind  working  after  images  and  symbols  with 
which  to  express  their  human  emotion.  You  find 
yourself  thinking  in  terms  of  scudding  clouds  and 
orchard-surf,  the  beat  of  waves,  a  string  of  birds 
against  the  moon,  the  wing-laden  shimmer  of  the 
dusk.  "She  had  upon  her  skin  the  good  odours 
of  withered  violets,  her  loins  bent  as  palm-trees, 
her  hands  were  as  running  waters  of  desire." 
Other  pictures  crowd  upon  you,  beauty  seized  at 
the  supreme  moment  of  expression  and  held  for 
ever,  arrested  figures  on  a  Grecian  vase,  pictures 
of  Botticelli.  Such  dancing  has  "phrasing," 
as  the  musicians  put  it,  and  one  is  amazed 
at  its  purely  decorative  quality,  the  power  of 
filling  a  space,  a  circle,  as  Burne-Jones  could  do. 
Sometimes  the  sheer  beauty  of  "natural"  grace 
catches  you  by  the  throat.  There  is  a  melody  of 
78 


Swan  and  Dragon-Fly 

line,  if  you  like,  but  the  heard  melodies  of  the 
orchestra  are  reduced  to  a  subordinate  tinkle,  so 
well  does  this  beautiful  art  pipe  to  you  ditties  of 
no  tone  save  its  own  soundless  one  of  perfect 
motion.  Dancing  may  concern  itself  with  im- 
mortal beauty  or  a  game  of  skittles  in  a  bar 
parlour — Pavlova  at  her  best  sends  us  back  to 
Aphrodite.  "  I  was  free,  I  was  pure.  The  seas 
shook  for  love  of  me  at  the  touch  of  my  heels. 
I  was  beauty !  I  was  shapeliness !  I  trembled 
over  the  world  asleep  ;  substance  was  dried  up 
at  the  sight  of  mine  eyes,  of  itself  it  strengthened 
into  just  shapes y 

Something  of  this  we  would  have  said  of  the 
Pavlova  of  old,  a  Pavlova  which,  alas !  the  recent 
visit  did  not  show  us.  This  artist  needs  a 
dramatist  to  stand  up  to,  not  a  ballet-master. 
She  has  been  acclaimed  as  the  equal  of  the  great 
tragic  players,  and  mere  prettiness,  however 
exquisite  and  enchanting,  will  not  suffice.  Imita- 
tions of  swans  and  dragon-flies,  however  haunt- 
ing, can  never  be  more  than  divertissements. 
From  the  play-bill  I  had  imagined  that  she  was 
to  appear  in  Thai's,  and  I  read  wonders  into 
what  the  performance  was  to  be.  It  was  to  give 
me  all  over  again  the  Moreau-Huysmans  paint- 
ing:  "  Diamonds  sparkle  on  the  dead  whiteness 
of  her  skin,  her  bracelets,  girdles,  rings,  shoot 
sparks  ;  on  her  triumphal  robe,  sewn  with  pearls, 
flowered  with  silver,  sheeted  with  gold,  the 
jewelled  breast-plate,  whose  every  stitch  is  a 
precious    stone,    bursts    into    flame,    scatters    in 

79 


Alarums  and  Excursions 

snakes  of  fire,  swarms  on  the  ivory-toned,  tea- 
rose  flesh  like  splendid  insects  with  dazzling 
win^s,  marbled  with  carmine,  dotted  with  morn- 
ing gold,  diapered  with  steel  blue,  streaked  with 
peacock  green." 

Imagine  my  distress  at  finding  that  it  was 
exactly  in  this  ballet  that  Madame  Pavlova  was 
not  to  appear.  A  lady  of  the  school  I  will  have 
none  of,  a  premiere  danseuse,  was  to  enact 
Thais,  And  what  a  mess  Massenet  and  his 
dancing  master  have  made  of  the  story  :  a 
pagan  festival  of  middle-class  exuberance  of  the 
same  order  as  the  Fete  de  Neuilly  ;  a  courtesan 
to  kindle  deserts  dowered  with  the  circum- 
spection of  a  young  miss  from  school.  Certain 
it  is  that  no  dancer  who  is  not  an  actress  could 
have  made  us  see  "  the  lids  of  her  eyes  shiver 
as  the  wings  of  a  moth."  This  little  affair  of 
paper-roses  and  decorous,  bare-footed  young 
men,  of  modest  shudderings  and  bashful  comings- 
on  would  have  sobered  a  Bacchante.  Miss 
Pinkerton  herself  had  not  been  alarmed. 


80 


A  Note  on  Repertory 

The  function  of  art  is  to  make  us  love  what  we  have  tried  to  love 
a  hundred  times  before  and  found  dull  each  time. 

[Adapted.) 

IS  it  just  fancy  that  the  general  public  is  com- 
ing round,  slowly,  to  the  idea  that  the  drama 
styled  elevating  is  not  such  a  boring  affair 
after  all,  and  that  the  bogey  of  theatrical  educa- 
tion is  nothing  more  fearsome  than  a  means  of 
getting  more  fun  out  of  life.^  Theatrical  educa- 
tion is  not,  like  Alice's  growth,  a  tilting  at  the 
roof;  it  is  a  broadening  of  the  base  or  scope  of 
the  mind,  and  may  embrace  both  Ibsen's  Ghosts 
and  Mr  Harry  Tate's  Motoring.  It  is  a  mistake 
to  confuse  intellectual  plays,  which  undoubtedly 
exist,  with  intellectual  acting  which  has  no  exist- 
ence save  in  the  apprehension  of  the  timid. 
There  are  intellectual  plays  and  there  are  stupid 
plays ;  there  is  good  acting  and  there  is  bad. 
The  snare  of  so-called  intellectual  actingr  is  the 
supposition  that  transcendence  of  thought  may 
excuse  the  commoner  imperfections,  that  it  does 
not  matter  what  clayey  pitfalls  our  actors  stumble 
into,  so  long  as  their  heads  are  generously  in  the 
clouds. 

Now  the  acting  demanded  by  the  repertory 
play  is  exactly  the  same  kind  as  that  demanded 
by  the  commercial  play.  We  should  not  forgive 
an  actor  at  the  St  James's  Theatre  who  could 
neither  talk,  walk,  nor  sit  still,  simply  because  of 
some  imagined  rarity  of  soul  ;  and  there  is  not 
the  slightest  reason  for  a  different  code  of  leniency 

1  Written  before  the  Gaiety  at  Manchester  went  down  into  the  bottom- 
less pit  of  the  kinema. 

K  8l 


Alarums  and  Excursions 

at  the  Court.  Acting  demands  primarily  not  so 
much  certain  vague  quahties  of  mind  as  certain 
very  definite  attributes  of  body.  It  is  not  of  the 
first  importance  that  an  actor  should  hold  the  key 
to  Marchbanks,  or  feel  in  the  marrow  of  his  bones 
the  rottenness  of  Morell.  It  is  essential  that  he 
should  create  a  living  being  whom  the  spectator 
may  fill  out  into  Marchbanks  or  Morell.  Punch 
and  Judy  have  no  understanding,  yet  their  show 
is  the  most  complete  illusion  of  life.  Puppetry 
is  the  first  and  all  but  the  last  word  in  acting  ; 
it  is  the  point  at  which  all  schools  converge. 
Coquelin,  carefully  sponging  from  his  face  all 
individual  expression,  then  composing  the  empty 
mask  into  the  likeness  of  another  man's  features  ; 
the  elder  Irving  arrogating  all  other  personalities 
to  his  own  :  both  came  to  absolute  life.  The 
o-ift  of  living  in  front  of  an  audience — not  the 
fatal  talent  of  looking  like  life — is  not  to  be 
analysed.  Tragedians  have  lacked  it,  mounte- 
banks possessed  it  abundantly.  Salvini  and 
Dan  Leno  were  rich  in  it ;  never  a  trace  in  Jane 
Hading's  supremely  clever  calculations.  The 
actors  of  Ibsen  must  act  like  actors  first  of  all, 
and  then  like  clever  people  if  they  can.  This  is 
what  Mr  Shaw  means  when  he  says  that  Ibsen 
makes  demands  upon  a  finer  technique  than 
English  acting  possesses.  Technique,  you  notice, 
not  brains.  The  actor  in  an  Ibsen  play  is  not 
concerned  with  the  play's  spiritual  or  literary  merit. 
He  is  not  concerned  with  anything  beyond  his 
own  sense  of  the  theatre,  the  spectator's  sense  of 
8? 


A  Note  on  Repertory 

the  theatre,  and  the  job  of  fusing  the  two.  It  is 
extraordinary  how  much  can  be  done,  even  with 
Ibsen,  by  the  professional  duffer,  the  "  sound  and 
competent "  actor.  Such  an  actor  may  not  have 
the  brains  of  a  hen,  and  yet  be  carried  on  to 
some  kind  of  success  by  the  perfection  of  his 
purely  technical  mechanism.  On  the  other  hand, 
not  all  the  brains  in  the  world,  the  nicest  dis- 
crimination in  the  thinking  out  of  a  part  that  is 
psychologically  all  thumbs,  are  of  much  avail  to 
a  man  who  does  not  quite  know  what  to  do  with 
his  hands.  In  other  words,  acting  is  a  tempera- 
mental art.  In  the  realm  of  pure  reason  there 
may  be  an  art  of  intellectual  acting  ;  on  the  stage 
there  can  never  be  other  than  temperamental 
actors.  There  is  nothing  the  temperamental 
actor  cannot  do,  even  if  he  has  to  get  other  brains 
to  help  him  ;  but  there  is  nothing  the  intellectual 
actor  can  do,  if  he  have  the  brains  of  a  Bacon 
and  lack  the  stage-temperament.  Mr  Esm^  Percy 
played  Tanner  in  Man  and  Superman  very  much 
better  than  I  have  ever  seen  it  played  because 
he  simply  played  it  like  an  actor  and  not  like  a 
thinker.  It  is  true  that  temperamental  acting 
does  no  better  with  writing  of  the  quality  of  Mr 
Shaw's  than  it  does  with  other  people's  rubbish. 
Only  it  is  saved  the  bother  of  transfiguring  the 
rubbish.  A  good  actor  will  be  just  as  effective 
in  Maria  Martin  as  in  Othello ;  and  it  takes  a 
good  actor  to  do  justice  to  both.  When  you 
come  to  the  actor  who  oets  all  there  is  to  be  orot 
out   of   both  tragedy  and  barn-storming,  and  is 

83 


Alarums  and  Excursions 

immeasurably  finer  in  tragedy,  then  you  know 
that  you  are  in  the  presence  of  the  great  actor. 
The  finest  compliment  ever  paid  to  a  repertory 
company  was  when  a  popular  actor-manager, 
speaking  of  the  Court  Theatre  as  a  rival  attraction, 
said  :  "  It  is  not  the  plays  that  do  us  the  damage  ; 
it  is  the  acting  !  " 

The  first  essential  for  the  actors  of  intellectual 
plays  is,  then,  that  they  shall  be  temperamentally 
competent.  But  the  writers  of  these  plays  have 
a  habit  of  demanding  a  good  deal  more  even 
than  that.  When  Henry  James  asked  of  his 
immemorial  butler:  "And  to  whom  do  you, 
beautifully,  belong  ? "  he  assumed  his  actor  cap- 
able of  adumbrating  in  a  single  gesture  the 
New  World's  view  of  the  Old.  And  he  as- 
sumed the  audience  capable  of  taking  that 
gesture  in.  When  Mr  Gilbert  Cannan  asked  a 
lady  in  one  of  his  plays  :  "What  really  was  the 
man  to  whom  you  always  beautifully  belonged  .-* 
What  manner  of  man  was  this  of  whom  you  are 
becoming  more  and  more  perfectly  the  widow?" 
he  should  have  realised  that  neither  actors  nor 
audience  could  by  any  manner  of  possibility  be 
up  to  it.  For  was  not  he,  the  author,  up  against 
the  tyranny  of  the  temperamental  actor's  view  of 
what  constitutes  a  good  part  and  of  how  a  good 
part  should  be  played  ?  Must  there  not,  inevit- 
ably, be  the  "  note "  of  the  widowed  lady  ^ 
Temperamental  actors  will  always  find  you  a 
"note"  with  which  they  can  hit  off,  simply  and 
unerringly,  and  without  confusion  or  mistake,  a 
84 


A  Note  on  Repertory 

character  which  may  be  to  the  author  who  has 
created  it  all  confusion  and  compromise,  half- 
assertion  and  half-denial.  The  "note"  of  char- 
women is  tearful  penury,  of  cabmen  huskiness, 
of  soldiers  the  uppishness  of  Corioli.  Must  not 
the  "note"  of  the  widow  be  the  inevitable  mixture 
of  archness  and  resignation  ?  Elaboration  and 
subtlety  in  the  theatre — are  they,  after  all,  worth 
while — since  you  can  never  get  from  the  "note" 
anything  but  bell-like  certainty  and  directness? 
The  audience,  too,  will  they  not  want  a  "dramatic" 
conflict,  not  of  ideas  but  of  happenings,  some 
common  hammer-and-tongs  of  action  to  keep  the 
play,  as  it  were,  "alive"?  So  even  the  intel- 
lectual playwright  is  tempted  to  give  up  the 
magnificent  thing  as  impossible,  in  view  of  the 
actor's  ineradicable  preference  for  "notes,"  his 
unconquerable  aversion  to  coming  on  the  stage 
at  all  until  less  important  characters  have  played 
the  audience  to  their  seats,  his  determination  to 
be  on  the  stage,  and  in  the  middle  of  it,  when  the 
curtain  comes  down  and  applause  is  going.  If 
the  intellectual  playwright  is  to  do  any  good,  he 
must  be  seconded  by  actors  who  have  tempera- 
mental genius,  and  the  intelligence  to  suppress 
all  that  the  temperamental  actor,  as  a  rule,  thinks 
it  incumbent  upon  him  to  stress. 

A  great  critic  talks  somewhere  of  surveying 
Ibsen's  idealism  "from  the  clear  ether  above, 
which  can  only  be  reached  through  its  mists  " — 
that    is,    through    the    mists    of   idealism.      The 

85 


Alarums  and  Excursions 

plain  niiin  will  have  to  do  a  deal  of  striving  to 
break  through  the  clouds  of  such  a  play  as 
Rosmersholm,  to  rub  his  eyes  industriously  and 
peer  hard,  if  he  is  to  be  rewarded  by  so  much 
as  a  glimpse  of  the  top.  Frankly,  one  feels  that 
criticism  in  this  case  is  rather  like  leading  up  a 
climb  you  have  not  done  before.  The  drama  is 
the  purest  symbolism,  a  play  not  of  life  but  of 
the  philosophy  of  life.  "  People  don't  do  such 
things"  as  Rosmer,  his  wife  and  Rebecca  con- 
trive to  do  in  this  play,  or  if  they  did  we  should 
think  the  world  (rone  mad.      But  we  should  think 

o 

the  world  gone  mad  if  poets,  philosophers,  re- 
formers acted  their  dreams  instead  of  dreaming 
them,  and  that  is  just  what  Ibsen's  people  do. 
They  are  pegs  for  ideas,  and  we  are  to  care  little 
for  what  happens  to  the  pegs  and  everything  for 
what  happens  to  the  ideas.  Who,  that  knows 
the  plays  well,  wants  to  weep  at  Oswald,  or  is 
distressed  at  Lovborg's  wound  in  the  stomach, 
and  Hedda's  in  the  temple?  Who  cares  how 
many  steeples  Solness  topples  from,  or  is  moved 
by  the  threefold  drowning  in  the  mill  stream  at 
Rosmersholm  ?  And  yet  these  were  moving 
things  if  we  had  not  been  preoccupied  with  the 
tragedy  of  idea,  the  disaster  that  crowns  high 
effort,  the  struggle  to  progress  further,  not  per- 
haps in  a  clearly-defined  direction,  but  somehow 
further  than  we  are  now.  It  is  not  the  physical 
or  actual  agonies  of  these  people  that  are,  in 
Whitman's  fine  phrase,  among  our  changes  of 
garments,  it  is  the  agony  of  the  propelling 
86 


A  Note  on  Repertory 

philosophy  that  we  wear.  The  danger  of  doing 
right,  of  going  forward,  the  hazard  of  all  ideals 
is  the  theme  of  Rosmersholm.  Rebecca  sets 
Rosmer's  mission  and  high  purpose  against  his 
wife's  existence,  unhesitatingly  sacrificing  the 
wife.  Rosmer  sets  his  own  faith  in  his  mission 
against  Rebecca's  existence,  and  ruthlessly  de- 
stroys her.  Only  the  Rosmersholm  tradition, 
the  idea  of  expiation,  forces  him  to  throw  his 
life  away  with  hers.  In  the  play  the  sacrifice 
is  of  life  to  an  ideal  ;  on  the  stage  it  is  one  of 
Hesh  and  blood  to  ideas.  It  is  Ibsen's  old 
insistence  on  the  relativity  of  right  and  wrong 
to  one's  particular  step  on  the  road.  Note  that 
it  is  always  the  people  with  ideals  who  do  the 
mischief.  Brand's  saintly,  Mrs  Alving's  domestic, 
and  iledda's  neurotic  idealisms  bring  about  all 
sorts  of  havoc,  and  yet  these  people  are  on  the 
side  of  the  angels,  or  at  least  not  actively  on 
the  devil's.  In  these  plays  the  black  sheep 
do  the  least  harm.  Martensgard  the  disreput- 
able, the  scorner  of  ideals,  is  the  man  to  whom 
the  poor  bring  their  troubles,  and  by  some  he  is 
accorded  the  victor.  Ulric,  the  drunken  charlatan 
with  a  touch  of  genius,  is  kicked  into  the  gutter 
by  the  man  he  has  reviled.  Rebecca  herself 
would  be  a  power  for  good  to  Rosmer  and  his 
mission,  if  it  were  not  that  the  three-cornered 
household  is  a  scandalous  affair.  One  feels 
that  she  lacked  the  courage  to  do  a  little  wrong 
and  did  a  greater,  whilst  the  wife,  taking  the 
coward's     course     courageously    and     drowning 

K7 


Alarums  and  Excursions 

herself,  brought  about  the  shattering  of  this 
Httle  world.  It  would  seem  that  the  only  way 
to  keep  upright  in  the  apparent  topsy-turvydom, 
is  to  fasten  resolutely  upon  some  idea  (it  does 
not  much  matter  what)  that  Ibsen  seems  to  be 
working  out,  and  let  the  rest  go  hang.  The  idea 
at  the  back  of  Rosmersholm  seems  to  be  that  the 
greater  an  ideal's  power  for  good,  the  greater  its 
danger.  Without  some  such  clue  the  play  is 
meaningless,  even  dull. 

People  who  call  themselves  Ibsenites  —  a 
deplorable  but  sufficiently  convenient  classifica- 
tion— are  curiously  bad  tacticians.  Surely  it  is 
the  business  of  the  Ibsenite  to  recognise  the 
futility  of  fighting  on  all  sides  at  once,  to  choose 
his  battle-ground  and  take  his  stand  on  Ibsen  as 
a  writer  of  plays  for  the  theatre,  as  an  artist  with 
a  vehicle  of  expression,  and  not  as  a  preacher 
with  a  message.  The  point  which  has  never 
been  made  with  sufficient  emphasis  is  the  magni- 
ficence of  the  plays  as  plays,  Ibsen  crops  up 
vaguely  in  the  general  mind  as  the  biggest  man 
of  a  school  in  revolt  against  the  "well-made 
play  "  ;  by  inference  as  the  apostle  of  clumsy  and 
careless  construction,  compensated  by  any  amount 
of  purpose.  No  idea  could  be  more  foolish. 
There  was,  of  course,  wonderful  dexterity  in  the 
old  plays.  When  Scribe  intended  his  heroine  to 
sniff  at  a  poisoned  bouquet  in  Act  V.,  he  took 
care  to  explain  the  possibilities  of  poison  by 
inhalation  in  Act  I.  Ibsen's  ingenuity  is  equally 
amazing,  but  it  is  not  concerned  with  daggers 
88 


A  Note  on  Repertory 

and  bowls.  In  A  DolVs  House  Nora  clearly  fore- 
shadows the  end  by  saying  to  the  children's  nurse  : 
"  And  if  my  little  ones  had  nobody  else,  I  am  sure 

you  would ,"  and  then,  putting  the  idea  away 

from  her:  "  Nonsense,  nonsense  !  "  Any  serious 
study  of  the  plays  must  reveal  that  they  are  the 
tightest,  tautest,  sparest  pieces  of  writing  in  the 
literature  of  the  stage.  And  we  may  be  quite 
certain  that  an  author  who  will  not  allow  himself 
a  word  too  many,  means  us  to  take  the  words  he 
does  use  at  their  fullest  value.  Adopting  this 
principle,  there  is  very  little  doubt  that  we  must 
find  in  Helmer  something  more  than  the  normal 
conventional  husband,  the  owner  of  a  pretty  wife 
and  an  elegant  fiat  with  a  tasteful  flower-pot  in 
the  front  window.  Helmer  is  an  incorrigible 
aesthete.  "  Nobody  has  such  exquisite  taste  as 
you,"  says  Nora.  Helmer  can't  bear  to  see  dress- 
making ;  he  suggests  embroidery,  which  is  pretty, 
in  place  of  knitting,  which  is  ugly  and  "  Chinese." 
He  notices  the  red  flowers  on  the  Christmas  tree. 
(Please  remember  that  there  is  no  idle  chatter  in 
Ibsen,  and  that  every  word  is  of  vital  importance.) 
He  looks  upon  Rank's  sufferings  as  a  cloudy 
background  to  the  sunshine  of  his  own  happiness, 
whilst  Rank  will  not  have  him  in  his  sickroom — 
"  Helmer's  delicate  nature  shrinks  so  from  all 
that  is  horrible."  Nor  can  we  doubt  that  Ibsen 
intended  to  convey  a  considerable  sensualism  as 
well.  The  scene  after  the  dance  is  one  of  the 
most  searching  things  on  the  stage.  Helmer  is 
drunk,   or  at  least,   he   has  had  a  good  deal  of 

89 


Alarums  and  Excursions 

champagne,  and  the  whole  scene  seems  intended 
to  show  that  Nora  was  never  a  wife,  never  more 
than  a  legaHsed  mistress.  Helmer  has  not  the 
brains  to  reaUse  this  when  he  is  sober,  and  he 
masks  his  unsuspected  self  with  all  the  egregious 
cant  about  sheltering  wings  that  Mr  Shaw  gave 
us  again  in  Morell.  On  this  interpretation 
Helmer  is  quite  convincing,  and  his  rage  at  dis- 
covering his  mistress-wife  more  fool  than  knave 
is  perfectly  reasonable.  There  is  great  superficial 
resemblance  between  Helmer  and  Morell,  but  we 
cannot  imag-ine  Morell  behaving-  to  Candida  as 
Helmer  did  to  Nora.  But  then  Morell  is  neither 
aesthete  nor  sensualist,  and  is  much  closer  to 
the  normal  husband  than  Helmer.  Helmer  is 
abnormal  ;  this  fact  admitted,  the  play  hangs 
together.  Make  him  normal,  and  the  play  leaves 
us  with  the  unpleasant  conviction  that  none  of  us 
should  'scape  whipping. 

The  conviction  that  Verhaeren's  The  Cloister 
is  a  great  dramatic  poem  is  not  appreciably 
weakened  by  the  fact  that  a  fine  performance  by 
Mr  William  Poel  and  a  Belgian  performance  in 
the  original  still  leave  us  fumbling  with  a  sense 
of  tragedy  imperfectly  accounted  for.  Perhaps  a 
certain  unaccountableness  is  essential  to  these 
soaring  dramas  of  the  spirit,  if  they  are  really  to 
soar :  which  of  us  would  circumscribe  Hamlet 
with  too  complete  an  understanding  .-*  Mr  George 
Moore  has  laid  it  down  that  "great  art  dreams, 
imagines,  sees,  feels,  expresses — reasons  never," 
90 


A  Note  on  Repertory 

to  which  one  would  add  the  corollary  that  if  art 
is  not  to  reason  she  must  be  careful  not  to  handle 
matter  which  cries  out  principally  for  argument. 
The  difficulty  with  The  Cloister  is  that  its  un- 
accountableness  is  of  dual  quality  :  a  loftiness  of 
spirit  transcending  and  scorning  reason,  combined 
with  poverty  of  thinking  on  the  lower  planes. 
There  is  much  theological  disputation  in  the 
play,  but  it  gets  no  further  than  Thomas's  "  Since 
God  cannot  be  Evil  and  since  we  can  have  fear  of 
evil  things  alone,  it  must  follow  that  it  is  wrong 
to  preach  that  '  the  Fear  of  God  is  the  beginning 
of  Wisdom,'"  to  which  Balthazar  replies  :  "You 
reason  too  much,"  instead  of,  more  properly : 
"You  reason  too  loosely.  The  Awe  of  the 
Omnipotent  and  the  dread  of  Evil  are  different 
kinds  of  fear."  Unprofitable  then  must  be  the 
ensuing  theological  arraignments  and  defences 
by  two  such  faulty  logicians. 

Now  take  the  more  tangible  conflict  of  the 
play,  Balthazar's  urgency  to  confess  his  crime. 
He  is  a  parricide  of  ten  years'  standing,  has 
received  absolution  from  the  Prior,  and  risen  to 
such  eminence  in  his  Order  that  the  supreme 
leadership  is  to  be  his.  We  are  told  that  the 
whole  safety  and  survival  of  the  monastery  de- 
pends upon  Balthazar's  acceptance  of  the  leader- 
ship. Is  he  to  accept  these  blushing  honours 
without  publicly  blushing  for  his  crime.'*  Must 
he  give  himself  up  to  civil  justice  and  bring 
ruin  on  his  Order  ?  An  old  catch  stated  over 
and  over  again  in  all  the  theatres  of  the  world. 

91 


Alarums  and  Excursions 

Russian  drama  wants  to  know  whether  a  judge 
may    sentence    a    woman    he   has    ruined.      The 
throes  of  Mr  Hall  Caine  in  similar  perturbation 
are    familiar.        M.    Bernstein    wants    to    know 
whether  a  Prime   Minister  is  any  the  worse  for 
having,   as  a   young   man   with   all   sorts   of  ex- 
tenuating circumstances  and  with  a  consumptive 
mistress,    decamped    with    the    petty    cash.     We 
seem    to    remember   something   of  a    woman   in 
Sudermann  who  commits  suicide,  lest  her  indis- 
cretions should  prejudice  her  husband's  political 
career.     And  there  is  a  good  deal  on  the  same 
subject    in    a    Shakespearean    play  in    which   an 
admirable  State  policeman  suffers  for  his  private 
misdeeds.      In  all  cases  the  conflict  lies  between 
a  purely  selfish  expiation  and  a  continuance   in 
public    usefulness.     The    extraordinary    and    un- 
satisfying thing  about    The   Cloister — absorbing 
in  its  potentialities  of  spiritual  conflict — is    that 
there  is  no  conflict  in  the  soul  of  Balthazar.     All 
the  motives  that  present  themselves  for  analysis 
are   ignored — the  visionary's  insistence  on  truth 
before    all    other    material     considerations,     the 
conviction  that  a  religious  Order  had  better  be 
destroyed    than    founded  on   a   lie.     Then   there 
are  the  more  modern  possibilities — the  inability 
of  the  inefficient  criminal  to   hold   his   tongue,  a 
pathological    condition    of   the    nervous    system 
after  Dostoievski,  a  perverse  and  Huysmans-like 
indulgence  in  the  luxuries  of  self-abasement.     As 
to  all  these,  silence — simply  a  blind  espousal  of 
a  motiveless   obstinacy.     And    nothing  is    more 
92 


A  Note  on  Repertory 

disconcerting"  in  the  theatre  than  a  flood  of 
passion  of  which  we  cannot  trace  the  rational 
source. 

And    yet,    if  we    can    but    discard    intellectual 
analysis,    and    concede    to    Mr    Moore    that    the 
proper   and    single    plane    of    great    art    is    the 
emotional,  what  a  marvellous  play  it  is !     What 
gusts    of    passion    blow    through    it,    tearing    to 
tatters  the  murky  and  obscuring  clouds  of  logical 
precision.     Admire  the  rich  and  sombre  tapestry 
of  Verhaeren's  verse,  the  use  of  sacred  symbols, 
the  martyr's  tale  of  agony  and  redemption,  yoke 
and  palm !     The  lines  glow  with  the  enthusiasm 
of  stained  glass,   with  the  fervour  and  urgency 
of  the   gilding    upon    the    images  of   saints ;    an 
entire  idiom  is  evoked  that  would  drown  reason 
with  its  organ  notes,  and  shame  to  silence  with 
the  hush  of  high  altars.     Of  what  avail  are  the 
definitions  of  philosophy  confronted  with  the  soul 
which  has  become  "  un  bouquet  de  flammes,"  or 
how  justly  to  appraise  a  crime  now  "  un  mal  rouge 
et  griffu,"  to  be  confessed  to   brother-confessors 
and  washed  away  "dans  les  eaux  d'or  de   leur 
prieres "  ?     These   are  matters  of  faith  and  not 
reason.      Balthazar's  superb  "Moi,  j'ai  la  passion, 
j'ai  la  rage  de   Dieu,"  rides  rough-shod  over  the 
sceptic  and  the  questioner,  followed  as  it  is  by  the 
declaration  :   "  II  est  autant  plus  Dieu  qu'on  ne  le 
comprend  pas."    The  whole  of  Balthazar's  ecstasy 
of  abasement  turns  to  an  elaborate  rhapsody  on 
our  own  Richard's  luxurious  theme  :  "  What  must 
the   King  do   now?     Must   he   submit  i* "     Must 

93 


Alarums  and  Excursions 

Balthazar  be  deposed  ?  Balthazar  shall  be  con- 
tented. Must  he  lose  the  name  of  monk?  O' God's 
name  let  it  go.  His  offence  shall  smell  publicly 
to  heaven,  and  nothing  to  Balthazar  are  the  in- 
violacy  of  the  Order,  the  knowledge  that  with  his 
downfall  the  whole  edifice  must  crumble  away. 
Ignominy  is  his  and  he  will  have  it ;  so  the  play 
tightens  like  a  cord  round  the  temples,  until  the 
passion  of  pride  gives  way  in  the  torrent  of  self- 
abasement.  And  the  fall  of  the  curtain  brings  an 
almost  physical  relief. 

The  Education  of  Mr  Surrage  shows  Mr 
Allan  Monkhouse  in  quest  of  the  comic  rhythm 
in  things  tragic.  Matter  most  convenient  for 
tears  is  often  the  proper  food  of  thoughtful 
laughter  ;  and  human  frailty,  deftly  and  wittily 
pilloried,  is  quick  to  take  an  appropriate  revenge 
in  a  heightened  appeal  to  our  sensibilities.  And 
to  the  writer's  sensibilities,  too  ;  in  the  presence 
of  his  pilloried  wretches  he  is,  unwillingly  if  you 
like,  all  excuse  and  understanding.  This  light 
and  pleasant  air  of  things  not  mattering  too  over- 
whelmingly, of  being  less  than  tragic,  is  a  critical 
safeguard,  a  livery  of  discretion,  warning  us  to 
laugh  with  care. 

The  Education  of  Mr  Surrage  is  all  about  a 
good  ordinary  soul  who  cannot,  for  the  life  of 
him,  see  why  a  great  artist  should  not  be  a 
good  man.  And  it  is  also  all  about  a  great 
artist  who  cannot,  for  the  life  of  him,  see  why 
anybody   should    bother   about    his    being    either 

94 


A  Note  on  Repertory 

a  good  man  or  a  bad  one,  since  being  anything 
is  no  concern  of  his.  His  business  is  looking 
on,  and  when  his  own  conduct  is  in  question 
he  is  still  only  a  looker-on.  Let  us,  to  clear 
the  ground,  begin  with  the  simplest  form  of  the 
antithesis — the  good  man  who  spends  all  his 
time  in  behaving  himself  and  not  thinking  about 
the  arts,  and  the  artist  who  spends  all  his  time 
in  creatine  works  of  art  and  not  thinking  at  all 
about  behaviour.  Such  a  general  contrast  m 
type,  let  us  say,  as  Beardsley  describes  in  his 
poem  of  the  woodland  musician  who 

"  Fills  the  air  with  Gluck  and  fills 
The  tweeded  tourist's  soul  with  scorn." 

Shall  we  now  qualifiy  the  general  statement  so 
far  as  to  consider  that  the  tweeded  tourist  is  a 
man  who  will  accept  unreservedly  the  dictum  of 
Matthew  Arnold  that  "conduct  is  three  parts 
of  life,"  it  being  understood  that  the  remaining 
part,  which  might  conceivably  be  devoted  to 
the  arts,  must  follow,  even  if  devoted  thereto, 
in  the  wake  of  conduct  '^  And  let  us  admit 
that  the  artist  is  a  being  who  will  accept  equally 
unreservedly  the  dictum  that  "the  conduct  of 
others  is  the  whole  interest  of  life,"  and  who 
will  place  his  own  conduct  amongst  the  general 
ruck  of  behaviour,  in  the  general  swim  of  in- 
terest;  a  thing  to  be  considered,  "seen,"  and 
"placed,"  and  of  no  more  moment  to  him  than 
that  of  the  indifferent  others.  The  good  man 
moves  in  a  world  of  actions,  the  artist  in  a  sphere 

95 


Alarums  and  Excursions 

of  thought.  Now  Mr  Monkhouse's  play  is  an 
attempt  at  a  reconciliation  ;  an  insistence,  first 
that  there  is  a  common  ground,  and  then  an 
endeavour  to  find  the  common  ground  where 
the  good  man  shall  think  finely  and  the  fine 
artist  behave  properly. 

The  scheme  of  the  play  is  brilliantly  trivial. 
There  are  three  young  folk,  intellectuals  all, 
bent  on  "improving"  an  honest  innocent  of  a 
parent.  The  children  invite  to  their  father's 
house  an  advanced  dramatist,  an  advanced  painter 
who  is  starving,  and  a  woman  with  advanced 
views  on  the  art  of  living.  The  playwright  turns 
out  pure  puppy,  the  artist  is  a  thief,  and  the 
woman  has  deserted  her  lover  in  his  hour  of 
need.  A  precious  trio  of  humbugs,  an  easy  peg 
for  a  lecture  on  the  spurious  thing  called  the 
artistic  temperament.  But  Mr  Monkhouse  knows 
his  stage  better  than  to  preach  from  it.  The 
scheme  of  the  play  is  comic ;  the  father  out- 
grows his  formidable  children.  He  noses  un- 
erringly the  mediocrity  of  the  playwright-puppy 
and  does  not  back  him  ;  he  turns  the  artist-thief 
into  a  "  commercial  proposition,"  and  regularises 
the  woman's  affair  with  her  lover.  "  Why  don't 
you  think  instead  of  bleating  and  baa-ing  like 
a  lot  of  sheep  when  you  come  up  against  any- 
thing you  are  not  accustomed  to  ? "  says  the 
artist  in  The  Doctor  s  Dilemma,  and  Surrage, 
our  good,  honest  hero,  has  to  do  some  very  hard 
thinking  indeed.  In  entire  sincerity  and  hu- 
mility, Surrage — and  we  feel  that  Mr  Monkhouse 
96 


A  Note  on  Repertory 

is  very  deeply  with  him  —  will  have  it  that 
there  must  be  an  essential  relation  between  fine 
imagination  and  sober  conduct.  He  is  impatient 
of  the  formal  choice  between  a  world  of  grood 
men  and  bad  pictures,  and  a  world  of  good 
pictures  and  bad  men.  Some  common  factor 
of  good  in  inspired  imagination  and  honest 
conduct — that  is  his  quest.  He  sets  out  on  it 
with  equal  faith  in  the  unshakableness  of  the 
case  for  the  Good  Man,  and  in  the  sincerity  of 
the  arguments  of  unruliness.  If  the  artist  is 
not  "  respectable  "  it  is  at  least  conceivable  that 
he  is  obeying  a  different  code  of  Respectability. 
If  he  is  a  thief,  then  you  must  set  against  the 
filching  of  a  few  pounds  the  fact  that  he  will 
starve  for  the  sake  of  his  work.  Then  hear  his 
temperamental  "  Paints  wonderful  pictures,  does 
he  ."*  But  what's  the  good  of  a  trick  like  that  ? 
What's  his  character?"  The  artist's  mistress 
moves  him  to  strange  elations.  He  talks  of 
her  liaison  as  a  "  degradation  "  and  an  "abyss" 
— and  yet  this  woman  haunts  and  fires  his  im- 
agination. They  are  tragic,  these  three.  Surrage 
has  his  hour  of  divination  ;  he  is  moved  by  an 
embrace  of  the  artist,  at  which  begins  under- 
standing between  them.  He  climbs  nobly,  his 
concessions  are  finely  imaginative  ;  and  to  the 
artist  is  given  the  dignity  of  a  great  certainty. 
The  play,  despite  its  kindly  obsession  of  the 
comic  spirit,  has  not  been  conceived  without 
agony.  The  author  arrives  at  the  end  to 
"We  must  cultivate  our  gardens,"  only  the 
G  97 


Alarums  and  Excursions 

fonnula  has  now  become   "We  must  get  things 
straight." 

Now  all  this,  even  if  v/e  admit  the  philosophy, 
is  a  little  steep  for  the  stage.  How  much  steeper 
when  you  realise  that  Mr  Monkhouse  is  too 
good  a  thinker  to  make  an  irresistible  force  of 
artistry  come  up  against  an  immovable  wall  of 
behaviour.  The  good  man  and  the  artist  do  not 
engage  in  a  hand-to-hand  fight.  Each  of  them 
espouses  the  other's  cause  in  a  desperate  attempt 
to  come  at  his  point  of  view.  The  good  man 
does  battle  for  hig^h  thinking-,  and  the  artist  begins 
to  see  something  in  fine  doing.  But  this  is  not 
actable,  you  say,  and  we  must  admit  that  it  is  too 
delicate  to  suffer  the  grossness  of  "situations," 
"comic  business,"  and  all  the  numbing  traffic  of 
the  stage.  A  character  in  a  play  may  run  the 
whole  gamut  of  grave  comic  emotion  without  the 
stir  of  finger  or  eyelid,  and  we  can  be  enthralled. 
But  let  not  the  actors  move.  Let  there  not  be 
a  comic  butler,  played  by  a  comic  actor  with  a 
genius  for  rib-tickling,  to  throw  emotion  out  of 
gear.  The  fabric  of  this  play  must  tumble  to 
ruins,  even  if  it  be  acted  by  the  finest  actors  in 
the  world — so  gross  a  medium  is  the  stage — 
unless  the  actors  will  consent  to  sit  still,  and  read 
out  of  the  book  the  fine  things  in  which  it  so 
exquisitely  abounds.  For  the  emotions  of  these 
characters  are  never  the  broad  impulses  that  come 
to  the  surface  ;  they  cannot  be  expressed  in  terms 
of  facial  expression  and  crossings  from  left  to 
right.  Rather  are  they  so  many  spiritual  revisions, 
98 


A  Note  on  Repertory 

rearrangements  of  points  of  view,  adoptions  of 
new  moral  standpoints.  So  that  the  more 
"acting"  put  into  such  a  play  as  this,  the  more 
difficult  becomes  the  emotion,  the  further  from  us 
does  the  play  recede. 

St  John  Hankin's  The  Last  of  the  De  Mullins 
has  many  excellences  :  a  caustic  humour  at  the 
ready  service  of  all  the  humbugs,  a  gentle  wit  for 
the  rallying  of  the  helpless  and  the  self-effaced, 
a  comic  outlook  upon  life  that  has  abounding 
charity.  And  yet  we  may  think  that  if  Hankin 
had  foreseen  the  brilliant  work  of  the  theatre 
that  a  later  dramatist  was  afterwards  to  build  on 
the  same  scene,  he  would  have  added  to  his  solid 
and  major  excellences  some  of  the  vim,  the  snap, 
the  theatrical  opportunism,  the  more  showy  virtue 
of  Hindle  Wakes.  Both  plays  are  concerned 
with  what  at  first  sight  looks  like  the  young 
woman's  rejection  of  "the  handsome  thing." 
But  the  handsome  thing  is  no  longer  handsome 
when  it  is  the  young  rip  who  has  been  seduced 
and  is  now  thrown  over  by  the  strong-minded 
heroine,  whose  desire  for  experience  and  mother- 
hood is  satisfied.  With  this  difference,  that 
Fanny  desired  experience  and  Janet  De  Mullins 
motherhood,  the  theme  of  both  plays  is  the  same, 
the  rejection  of  the  amende  honorable. 

The  play  is  on  a  much  lower  level  of  theatrical 
achievement  than  Hindle  Wakes.  Look  at  the 
easy,  first-hand  fascination  of  Houghton's  play, 
with  its  genial  air  of  escapade,  its  evasions  and 

99 


Alarums  and  Excursions 

confrontations,  its  browbeatings,  its  persistence 
in  hopeless  denials,  its  sudden  throwing  up  of  the 
sponge.  The  bad  graces  of  young  hopeful,  the 
morals  of  the  cotton  manufacturer,  the  manners 
of  his  womenfolk — how  amusing  they  are  !  And 
how  exciting  and  compelling  in  the  theatre,  how 
definitely  you  feel  you  must  know  the  end  of 
the  story !  Now  take  the  Hankin.  Stripped 
of  the  thousand  and  one  aids  the  theatre  has  at 
command  to  prod  you  into  interest,  the  play  is 
bereft  of  the  legitimate  compulsion  of  the  story 
that  is  being  unfolded  before  you.  It  has  all 
happened  when  the  curtain  goes  up — the  betrayal 
and  the  parties'  several  ways  out  of  the  dilemma. 
Young  sprig  ran  away  only  to  learn  of  the  con- 
sequences of  his  act  after  ten  years  ;  she  to  found 
a  hat  shop  in  London.  The  scene  a  faire  is 
simply  what  face  the  young  gentleman  will  wear 
when  there  is  the  possibility  of  his  fiancee  being 
confronted  by  his  victim  and  his  nine-year-old 
son.  Old  De  Mullins,  the  last  of  his  effete  race, 
wants  the  former  union  of  the  couple  regularising, 
if  only  that  he  may  adopt  the  boy  and  confer  on 
him  the  De  Mullins  tradition.  But  Janet  is  as 
clear-minded  and  as  determined  as  Fanny,  and 
all  Houghton's  arguments  —  or  Fanny's  —  are 
anticipated.  Where  we  do  think  the  Hankin 
immeasurably  the  finer  play  is  in  the  greater 
momentum  and  more  certain  direction  of  the 
thought  behind  it.  "  To  do  as  I  did,"  says  Janet, 
"needs  pluck  and  brains  —  and  five  hundred 
pounds."  Houghton  did  just  see  that  Fanny 
loo 


A  Note  on  Repertory 

could  afford  to  defy  her  parents  and  to  indulge 
openly  in  divergence  from  a  recognised  code  of 
conduct,  because,  her  labour  in  the  mill  being  a 
marketable  commodity,  she  was  independent  as 
far  as  food,  clothing,  and  shelter  are  concerned. 
But  Hankin's  Janet  is  much  more  explicit. 
"  Pluck,  brains,  and  five  hundred  pounds — every- 
thing that  most  women  haven't  got,  poor  things. 
So  they  must  marry  or  remain  childless." 
Hankin  shows  a  orreat  deal  of  intellectual  couragfe 
m  this  play.  He  sees,  for  instance,  that  if  Janet's 
shop  had  been  a  financial  failure,  her  moral  right 
to  a  child  and  her  right  to  reject  marriage  and  a 
father  for  the  child  would  have  been  weaker.  He 
sees  that  a  girl  without  either  brains  or  five 
hundred  pounds  has  not  the  moral  right  to  a 
child.  In  this  play  morality  is  not  allowed  to 
mount  her  customary  high  horse,  or  if  she  rides 
him  she  rides  him  with  an  economic  curb. 


loi 


Cackle  and  '  Osses 

Some  glory  in  their  biith,  some  in  their  skill, 
Some  in  their  wealth,  some  in  their  body's  force  ; 
Some  in  their  garments,  though  new-fangled  ill  ; 
Some  in  their  hawks  and  hounds,  some  in  their  horse. 

Shakkspeare's  Sonnets. 

THE  ruling  passion  strong  in  death.  But 
how  if  there  be  two  which  shall  depose 
Fear?  Will,  from  its  cloudy  fellows,  one 
ghost  of  old  desire  emerge  palpable  at  the  last? 
Englishmen  there  have  been  who  have  desired 
music,  have  asked  to  be  seated  at  a  window 
opening  upon  sunset  and  the  everlasting  hills, 
or  craved  the  boon  to  look  again  upon  their 
beloved. 

"  Before  my  light  goes  out  for  ever  if  God  should 
give  me  choice  of  graces, 

I  would  not  reck  of  length  of  days,  nor  crave  for 
things  to  be  ; 

But  cry  :  One  day  of  the  great  lost  days,  one 
face  of  all  the  faces. 

Grant  me  to  see  and  touch  once  more  and  no- 
thing more  to  see." 

But  in  general  our  English  temper  is  more 
nearly  akin  to  that  of  the  trencherman  in  La 
Fontaine  who,  on  hearing  the  physician's  sentence 
of  death,  sent  for  the  remainder  of  the  turbot 
which  had  destroyed  him.  Can  it  be  that  at  the 
end  the  physical  shall  rage  grotesque  battle  with 
the  spiritual,  and  a  man  desire  to  be  hymned 
to  a  last  supper  in  the  rays  of  the  setting  sun  ? 
It  better  flatters  man's  dignity  to  endow  him 
with  a  crescendo  of  passions,  of  which  the  grandest 

I02 


Cackle  and  ^Osses 

shall  strike  fortissimo  at  the  last.  Falstaff's 
dying  babble — if  the  passage  be  not  simply  an 
emendation — fills  the  believers  with  pity,  but  also 
with  a  trifle  of  doubt.  That  a'  cried  out  of  sack 
is  agreed ;  the  green  fields  can  only  be  the 
brimming  over  of  his  creator's  cup  of  beauty. 
But  did  courage  fail  the  author  that  we  are  given 
the  scene  at  second  hand  ?  Was  there  fear  lest 
the  pit  empty  itself  to  the  cry  of:  "They  have 
killed  poor  Jack !  "  Why  not  have  launched  him 
into  the  next  world  on  a  orreat  burst  of  lautrhter  .'* 
And  why  did  Dickens  falter?  Why  give  that 
care  to  little  Nell,  moribund  from  her  earliest 
tear,  which  should  have  gone  to  compose  the 
limbs  of  that  other  immortal,  worthy  to  be  with 
Jack  in  paradise  ?  Better  Micawber  in  his  grave 
than  in  unspeakable  Port  Middlebay  !  "  Nothing 
is  more  worthy  of  lamentation,"  it  has  been  well 
said,  "than  when  a  lazy  poet  winds  up  his 
catastrophe  awkwardly,  and,  bestowing  too  little 
care  on  his  fifth  act,  dismisses  the  hero  with 
a  sneaking  and  private  exit,  who  had  in  the 
former  part  of  the  drama  performed  such  notable 
exploits  as  must  promise  to  every  good  judge 
among  the  spectators  a  noble,  public  and  exalted 
end."  But  I  digress,  and  though  digressions  are, 
incontestably,  "the  sunshine,  the  life  of  reading," 
I  must  to  my  muttons. 

Or  rather,  to  my  horses.  My  ruling  passion 
is  the  show-pony,  little  brother  to  the  Hackney. 
This  is  surely  one  of  the  gentlest  and  least  harm- 
ful of  hobby-horses  that  ever  lifted  leg.      "  That 

103 


Alarums  and  Excursions 

which  excites  so  lively  and  lasting  an  interest 
in  itself,  even  though  it  should  not  be  wisdom, 
is  not  despicable  in  the  sight  of  reason  and 
humanity."  But  I  will  not  be  at  pains  to  defend 
my  passion.  "  By  God,  'tis  good ;  and  if  you 
like't,  you  may  !  " 

I  know  nothing  of  the  thoroughbred.  I  am 
strangely  nervous  in  the  presence  of  Sir  Mulberry 
Hawke,  his  owner  ;  Mr  Pluck,  his  trainer  ;  Mr 
Pyke,  his  jockey.  I  am  unnecessarily  shy  of 
Mr  Kenneth  de  la  Zouche,  well  known  at 
Tattenham's,  who  never  owes,  who  has  a  hundred 
thousand  pounds  waiting  for  me  at  his  bank.  I 
go  in  unreasoning  dread  of  Mr  "  Issy  "  Schuncks 
and  Mr  "  Mossy  "  Rubenstein.  I  have  for  these 
very  harmless  people,  naked  allusion  to  whom 
without  the  prefix  "  popular  "  is,  surely,  the  purest 
Ihe  majeste,  the  same  antipathy  that  the  gentle- 
man in  the  detective  story  had  for  pieces  of 
paper  of  the  wrong  shape.  When  I  was  a  small 
boy,  "Pitcher"  and  "The  Dwarf  of  Blood" 
filled  me  with  the  same  terror.  Such  arch- 
knowingness  could  only  be  malignant.  When, 
later,  I  came  to  meet  journalists  in  the  flesh,  and 
saw  them  take  their  babes  upon  their  knees,  this 
oppression  grew  less.  But  "  the  enclosure  "  and 
"  the  paddock  "  remain,  to  my  grown-up  dread, 
caverns  of  iniquity  measureless  to  man.  So  long 
as  Alpha,  Xanadu  and  Kubla  Khan  stand  in  the 
names  of  his  Majesty  the  King,  the  Lord  Chief 
Justice  or  the  Minister  for  Waste  I  am  a  little 
reassured.     But    even    then    I     want    to    know 


Cackle  and  ^Osses 

whether  these  august  owners  may  enter  their 
horses'  boxes  and  turn  back  their  rugs,  send 
them  out  for  a  spin  and  see  for  themselves  how 
they  gallop.  What  would  be  said  were  Mr 
Hyman  Leber wurst,  the  proud  owner  of  Pleasure 
Dome,  to  insist  upon  matching  him  the  week 
before  the  great  race  for  a  friendly  mile  and 
a  half  with  Mr  Abe  Tiergarten's  Mount  Abora? 
And  yet  I  have  never  known  the  owner  of  the 
favourite  for  Richmond  or  Olympia  who  would 
not  "  give  you  a  show."  I  doubt  whether  the 
owner  of  the  Derby-winner  derives  as  much  fun 
from  his  fifty-thousand-guinea  animal  as  the 
sporting  butcher,  who  wins  first  prize  in  his  local 
tradesman's  class,  gets  out  of  his  fifty-pound 
pony.  That  cannot  be  done  without  some 
practice  of  horse-flesh  ;  the  Emperor  of  China 
may  win  the  blue  riband  without  leaving  his 
willow-pattern  throne. 

I  have  nothing  to  say  against  racing  as  a  form 
of  dice  or  cards.  Backing  your  fancy  is  an  ex- 
citing amusement,  and  betting  only  contemptible 
when  kept  within  your  means — morally  con- 
temptible, that  is.  To  exceed  what  you  can 
afford  may  be  the  highest  financial  wisdom. 
'*  Many  are  undone,"  said  that  great  authority, 
Mr  Jonathan  Wild,  "by  not  going  deep  enough 
in  roguery ;  as  in  gaming  any  man  may  be 
a  loser  who  doth  not  play  the  whole  game." 
But  I  am  not  persuaded  that  one  backer  in  ten 
thousand  plays  the  whole  game,  or  has  any  eye 
for  roguery  or  the  horse  itself.     Your  city  clerk 

105 


Alarums  and  Excursions 

cannot  distinguish  windgall  from  spavin,  speedy- 
cut  from  seedy-toe.  At  most  he  will  demand 
assurance  that  the  coat  is  glossy — a  sine  qua  non 
gleaned  from  the  Nat  Goulds  of  his  wetted 
thumb — but  he  cannot  tell  you  whether  the  neck 
is  "put  on  the  right  way."  In  his  bets  he  is 
guided  entirely  by  the  papers;  he  "follows" 
Archimandrite.  This  gentleman,  I  take  it,  is 
more  ingenuous  than  knavish.  His  perfectly 
honest  statement  would  be  :  You  will  lose  money 
in  any  case  ;  lose  the  smallest  possible  amount 
by  following  me.  Archimandrite  does  not,  in 
point  of  fact,  claim  to  be  infallible,  but  implies 
that  you  make  more  money  by  following  him 
than  by  following,  say,  Neophyte.  The  truth  is 
that  whether  his  "information"  be  the  result 
of  eavesdropping  or  bribery,  forgathering  with 
owners  at  the  Carlton  or  drinking  with  stable 
boys  at  the  Pig  and  Whistle,  or  even,  in  the 
last  resort,  of  personal  observation,  it  merely 
complicates  the  issue.  Whereas  in  any  race  of 
seventeen  starters  it  cannot  be  more  than  i6  to  i 
against  finding  the  winner  by  blind  chance,  the 
weicrhinof  of  "information"  and  "form"  throws 
infinity  into  the  scales  against  you.  "  Partner, 
said  an  impatient  bridge-player,  "  if  you  play  the 
first  card  that  comes  into  your  head  it  can  never 
be  more  than  12  to  i  against  it  being  the  right 
card  ;  if  you  stop  to  think  it  may  be  millions." 
Then  there  is  the  question  as  to  whether  the 
horse  you  "fancy"  is  a  genuine  trier.  "The 
odds  against  any  horse  being  sent  out  to  win," 
106 


Cackle  and  '^Osses 

a  wit  once  declared,  "  are  the  same  as  the  odds 
against  a  future  life— «  shade  worse  than  5  to  2." 
It  is  a  sunny  morning  in  June  and  the  day  of 
the  Dental  Gold  Plate.  I  am  a  city  clerk  and 
have  charge  of  the  firm's  petty  cash.  On  the 
way  to  business  I  open  my  paper,  and  compel  my 
God-given  sense  and  soul  to  the  urgency  of  some 
such  trash  as  you  shall  now  peruse  : 

THE   DENTAL  GOLD   PLATE 

Will  Ratelier  Win  ? 

By  Archimandrite 

I  Stick  to  my  guns  that  Ratelier  is  the  best 
thing  in  the  race.  The  stable's  confidence  in 
him  is  unbounded,  and  he  looked  worthy  of  it 
yesterday,  going  in  grand  fettle.  Of  course 
there  are  blotches  on  his  record,  notably  his 
recent  failure  against  Gold  Filling.  But  his 
connections  are  satisfied  to  ignore  his  running 
at  Liverpool,  and  look  to  him  to  reproduce  his 
Newmarket  form.  He  has  entirely  got  over  his 
laminitis,  and  there  is  no  truth  in  the  rumour 
that  he  went  very  short  in  his  gallop  yesterday. 
Gold  Filling  is  officially  proclaimed  fit  and  well, 
and  no  excuse,  barring  bad  luck,  can  possibly  be 
offered  should  he  fail.  Amalgam  is  probably  the 
most  crenuine  candidate  in  the  race.  When  well 
and  fancied  he  has  never  failed  to  run  gamely. 
Forceps  has  plenty  of  chance.  His  stamina 
should  make  up  for  his  being  rather  on  the  slow 
side.     Tonsilla  does  not  need  to  be  an   uncom- 

107 


Alarums  and  Excursions 

monly  good  mare  to  win  at  7  st.  2.  Her  great 
speed  should  make  up  for  her  being  something 
lacking  in  substance,  Etherea  has  a  following  and 
so  has  Novocaine,  whilst  there  are  late  tips  for 
Mucilage  and  Salivation.  Painless  is  reckoned 
a  good  thing  by  the  stable,  provided  she  keeps 
cool  and  businesslike.  Extraction  is  another  well 
"  expected  "  animal,  and  with  good  reason,  if  he 
can  be  trusted  to  reproduce  his  form  of  last  year. 
One  or  two  of  his  displays  this  season,  however, 
have  been  of  so  scrappy  a  nature  that  I  am 
afraid  to  trust  him  myself,  and  shall  leave  him  with 
the  remark  that  he  is  in  the  best  possible  hands. 
Bridge-Work,  if  willing  to  display  the  powers  he 
shows  at  home,  may  win  easily,  whilst  Exposed 
Nerve  is  always  dangerous.  Tragacanth,  whose 
tendons  gave  way  so  badly  a  fortnight  ago  that 
she  had  to  be  eased  in  preparation,  has,  I  hear, 
sufficiently  recovered  to  beat  this  week  those 
very  moderate  animals  Resin,  Arabic,  and  Copal 
in  a  five-furlong  gallop.  At  the  time  of  writing  the 
mare  is  apparently  sound,  but  her  popular  owner, 
Lord  Aussie  Hut,  tells  me  that  she  has  no  chance 
whatever.  The  weather,  too,  will  be  against  her. 
In  my  opinion  the  mare  is  to  be  left  severely  alone. 
The  selection  of  the  winner  is,  in  the  circum- 
stances, most  difficult.  However,  my  duty  to 
my  readers  is  a  thing  not  to  be  shirked.  All 
things  considered,  I  am  confident  that,  if  nothing 
untoward  happens,  the  going  suits  him,  he  gets 
well  away,  and  meets  with  no  bad  luck  in  the  race, 

Ratelier  Will  Win 
108 


Cackle  and  ^Osses 

with  Gold  Filling  and  Exposed  Nerve  as  his  most 
dangerous  opponents. 

I  spend  the  early  part  of  the  morning  wonder- 
ing whether  the  petty  cash  can  stand  yet  another 
ten  shillings. 

At  a  quarter  to  ten  the  evening-paper  race- 
special  comes  out.      Here  I  read  the  following  : — 

What  They  Say 
The  Dental  Gold  Plate 


"  Archimandrite  " 


"  Neophyte  "     . 

Sportsman  1 

"  Watchman") 

Sporting  Life  ] 
"  Vampire  "/ 

Sporting  Chronicle] 
"  Tympanum  "    J 

Times 

Telegraph 

Morning  Post 

Advertiser 

Graphic    . 

Daily  News 
"  Cassandra" 

Mail 


{Ratelier 
Gold  Filling 
Exposed  Nerve 
(Exposed  Nerve 
Gold  Filling 
Ratelier 


Ratelier  or  Gold  Filling 

f  Ratelier  i 

\  Forceps  2 

I  Exposed  Nerve     3 

Gold  Filling  or  Ratelier 

Forceps 

Tonsilla  e.  w. 

Ratelier  or  Gold  Filling 

Ratelier 

Ratelier 

Ratelier 

Ratelier 


109 


Alarums  and  Excursions 

Chronicle .         .         .     Forceps 

Daily  Herald    .         .     Ratelier 

,,.  (Ratelier,     if   ab.    Bridge- 

Mirror     .         .         .  |     ^^^^ 

c^T_  ,  ^  f Bridg^e-Work,       if        ab. 

S'''^'^       •         •  ■  i      Ratelier 

Sunday  Herald  .     Ratelier 

Sunday  Pictorial  .     Ratelier 

H.  and  Hounds  .     Ratelier 

Lie.  Vic.  Gaz.    .  .     Mucilage 

Sporting  Times  .     Ratelier 

Ratelier  seems  a  sure  thing.  The  porter  on  my 
station  shouts  Rattle  'Ere  ;  the  bus  conductor 
announces  that  Rattle  'Ere  is  well  and  good  ; 
my  barber  whispers  Rattle  'Ere;  the  bootblack 
breathes  Rattle  'Ere  into  my  boots;  the  newsboys 
give  Rattle  'Ere  to  the  world  at  large.  With  all 
these  and  the  great  Archimandrite  at  my  back,  I 
abstract  ten  shillings,  nay,  five  half-crowns.  If 
Ratelier  comes  home  I  shall  be  able  to  make 
good  the  week's  pilferings  without  having  re- 
course to  my  watch. 

At  three  o'clock  precisely,  at  far-away  Epsom, 
a  little  cloud  of  horses  leaves  the  post.  The 
world  stands  still. 

At  three-seventeen  a  hoarse  voice  pro- 
claiming "Winner  of  the  Dental  Plite" — and 
plight  it  turns  out  to  be — throws  me  down  my 
pen.  Hatless  I  emerge  into  the  street,  and 
struggle  with  half  a  hundred  other  hatless 
"sportsmen."  Hardly  can  we  hold  the  sheet, 
no 


Cackle  and  '^Osses 

In  one  corner  names  and  figures  swim  before  our 
eyes.     The  mist  clears  and  we  read  : 

Traoracanth  i 

Laughing  Gas      2 

Waiting  Room     3 

66-1,  100-7,  40-1 

Ratelier  finished  last 

Never  mind  !  The  petty  cash  will  be  made  good 
to-morrow.  Archimandrite  promises  something 
"extra"  for  the  Consolation  Stakes. 

No  ;  I  am  no  horseman  in  this  sense.  I  would 
give  all  your  layers  and  takers  for  that  old  York- 
shire farmer  who,  on  his  death-bed,  raised  his 
head  for  the  last  time  at  the  sound  of  Ophelia, 
the  great  Hackney  mare,  walking  one-two-three- 
four  down  the  village  street.  You  are  not  going 
to  tell  me  that  at  the  end  the  supreme  passions 
of  men  differ  in  intensity.  Man  cannot  fool  him- 
self higher  than  the  top  of  his  bent,  and  when  it 
comes  to  the  last,  all  ecstasies  are  equal.  "  A 
horse,"  say  you,  being  a  poet,  "is  only  a  horse." 
But  to  a  horseman  a  poet  is  only  a  poet.  Your 
horseman  would  orive  nothino-  to  have  talked  with 
Shelley  :  I  would  give  half  I  possess  to  have 
seen  Ophelia  plain.  "  He  who  has  done  a  single 
thing  that  others  never  forget,  and  feel  ennobled 
whenever  they  think  of,  need  not  regret  his 
having  been,  and  may  throw  aside  this  fleshly 
coil,  like  any  other  worn  -  out  part,  grateful 
and    contented."       Then    why    should    not    the 

III 


Alarums  and  Excursions 

horseman  die  content  who  has  bred  an  immortal 
mare  ?  ^ 

It  may  be  nothing  to  you  how  the  great 
Ophelia  was  bred,  who,  as  they  say,  she  was  by. 
But  will  you  swear  that  you  always  know  whom 
the  novels  you  read  are  by  ?  I  know  nothing 
more  pitiably  foolish  than  the  pictures  in  the  illus- 
trated papers  of  our  aristocracy  on  horseback. 
"  The  Duchess  of  Euston  at  the  Willesden  Meet," 
with  all  that  matters — the  front  and  quarters  of 
her  mount — cut  off  before  and  behind  the 
saddle.  Who  cares  whether  her  Grace  is  deep 
through  the  heart,  well  ribbed-up  and  stands 
on  short  legs,  is  quiet  in  all  traffic,  sound  in  wind 
and  limb,  no  day  too  long  ?  Her  quality  is  taken 
for  granted  ;  in  all  fairness  let  the  horse  speak 
for  himself. 

What  a  piece  of  work  is  a  horse !  How  noble 
in  reason !  how  infinite  in  faculty !    in  form  and 

*  The  present  year  has  seen  the  death  of  the  founder  of  the  great  stud  of 
Hackney  harness  horses  which  flourished  in  the  eighties.  Apart  from  the 
feat  of  his  marriage,  Burdett-Coutts's  claim  to  remembrance  rests  un- 
doubtedly up(jn  the  judgment  he  displayed  in  connection  with  the  Brook- 
field  stud.  Vet  we  find  the  author  of  a  fulsome  two-column  obituary  in  The 
Daily  Telegraph  dismissing  in  a  single  sentence  this  one  real  achievement. 
"  For  a  time  Mr  Burdett-Coults  interested  himself  in  a  fine  stud  of  Hackney 
horses,  with  yearly  sales  attended  by  everybody,  and  with  him  as  gracious 
and  popular  host."  The  writer  goes  on  :  "  For  in  time  he  had  lived  down 
all  the  mutinous  disapproval  which  naturally  visits  a  young  man  who 
marries  an  elderly  and  a  rich  lady." 

What  humbugs  we  are  !  Which  of  us  with  the  courage  to  embrace  the 
means  to  indulge  a  ruling  passion  will,  later,  consent  "  to  live  a  coward  in 
his  own  esteem "  ?  If  Coutts  was  anything  of  a  philosopher  he  knew 
that  jealousy  and  not  outraged  propriety  was  at  the  root  of  this  "  mutinous 
disapproval,"  and  that  his  critics  were  so  many  green-eyed  cats  i'  the 
adage.  He  must  have  known,  too,  that  whereas  Westminster  is  small,  the 
Yorkshire  moors  are  big  ;  and  that  the  clatter  of  hoofs  is  a  better  sound  in 
heaven  than  the  chatter  of  May  fair. 

112 


Cackle  and  ^Osses 

moving  how  express  and  admirable  !  in  action 
how  Hke  an  angel !  in  apprehension  how  like  a 
man  !  the  beauty  of  the  world !  the  paragon  of 
animals !  Never  was  there  a  more  erroneous 
conception  than  that  the  good  fellow,  the  horse, 
occasions  the  worst  in  man.  Rather  does  he 
bring  out  all  that  doing  and  daring,  the  willing- 
ness to  take  risks,  to  speculate  and  to  deal  which 
Mr  Gordon  Selfridge  has  declared  to  be  man's 
vocation  on  this  earth.  This  eminent  store- 
keeper, if  I  am  to  believe  an  interviewer,  would 
have  us  counter-jumpers  all.  The  Englishman, 
he  complains,  is  too  apt  to  throw  over  in  favour 
of  his  games  that  pursuit  of  business  which  is 
the  greatest  game  of  all.  But  here  he  forgets  the 
horse-dealer,  with  whom  trade  is  the  ruling  passion, 
not  only  of  a  death-bed,  but  of  a  lifetime.  The 
horse-dealer  does  not  breathe  who  lacks  the  fer- 
vour of  the  disciple,  the  obstinacy  of  the  fanatic, 
the  ecstasy  of  the  martyr.  His  soul  is  a  fire 
that  dieth  not.  For  him  the  Persian  invented 
the  motto  "  The  Buyer  hath  Need  of  a  Thousand 
Eyes,  the  Seller  but  One."  They  were  money- 
changers and  not  swoppers  of  horses  who  on 
that  Jewish  morning  submitted  to  the  upsetting 
of  their  tables.  '*  I've  been  had  many  a  time, 
and  I've  had  a  few  in  my  time,  but  when  it's  all 
reckoned  up  I've  had  the  best  end  of  the  deal," 
is  a  form  of  repentance  which  likes  me.  The  old 
Yorkshire  fancier  whom  I  quote  had  ever  been 
one  of  Nature's  heroes.  When  he  died  the  walls 
of  his  house  were  found  papered  with  writs.  "  To 
H  113 


Alarums  and  Excursions 

show  them  as  come  after  me  as  a  genlmn  Hved 
here."      I  am  never  tired  of  the  story  of  his  en- 
counter with    the  baiUffs,  a  story  illustrative  of 
resource  in  emergency.     Arriving  home  to  find 
the  officers  busy  with  the  tale  of  his  chairs  and 
tables,  he  went  into  the  garden  and  returned  with 
a  hive  of  bees.     These  he  released  point-blank 
into  the  unwelcome  faces.     "  Since  yo're  so  fond 
o'  numberinV'  he  shouted,  "  yo  con  count  these." 
Selling  horses  calls  for  the  art  which  in  many 
a   powerful    column    has    been    claimed    for  the 
selling    of   boots.      The    style    may    be    that    of 
Callisthenes  but  the  voice  is  the  voice  of  Gordon. 
Now  the  selling  of  boots,  suit-cases,  and  motor- 
cars calls  not  for  art   but  the  diplomacy  of  the 
counter.     The  things  are  dead  matter  turned  out 
at  so  much   a   thousand.     The   only    factory    in 
which  the  horse  is  turned  out  is   God's.     Your 
super-storeman  will  say:  "Granted  that  boots  and 
suit-cases  are  machine-made  and  liker  than  peas 
in  a  pod,  the  art  of  salesmanship  consists  in  get- 
ting the  consumer  to  consume  at  my  establish- 
ment."    By  which  he  means  that  his    salesmen 
are    pleasanter  and  better-mannered,    the  knife- 
edge  in  their  trousers  more  sharply  defined,  their 
hair   and    nails    more    highly   polished,    than    at 
the   establishment    down   the  street.      We  must 
make    an    emendation.     God    created     man    in 
His     image     that     he     might   stand    behind     a 
counter.      The  standard  by  which  a  motor-car  is 
appraised  is  a  mathematical  one.      How  runs  the 
equation  ? 
114 


Cackle  and  ^Osses 

Power  of  Cylinders     y^       ,  .,.         r>  • 

^ ; —  X  Uurability  =  rrice 

Petrol  consumption 

Not  even  the  dapper  little  gentlemen  who  foist 
these  soulless  things  upon  you  will  dissent  from 
such  a  proposition.  But  who  is  the  fellow  who 
will  estimate  his  horse  in  terms  of 

— -H — '=>        P 1  X  Length  of  days  =  Value  ? 

Cost  of  keep 

One  car  is  as  good  as  another  if  it  will  do  the 
same  thing  for  the  same  length  of  time  at  the 
same  cost.  The  test  for  beauty  is  the  same  as  in 
the  case  of  the  big  gun,  the  aeroplane,  or  any 
other  engine  for  the  destruction  of  man— the 
test  of  efficiency.  Whereas  the  horse  will  answer, 
thank  God,  to  every  other  test  under  heaven. 
Who  that  owns  a  car  can  spend  an  evening  with 
it  in  its  stable  without  butchery,  and  a  whole  ritual 
of  evisceration  reminiscent  of  fourteenth-century 
Messes  Noires  ?  You  cannot  commune  with  iron- 
mongery without  taking  it  to  pieces.  Whereas 
you  can  talk  to  your  nag  in  kindness  and  even 
gather  something  of  his  replies.  "He  who  has 
seen  tree-tops  bend  before  the  wind  or  a  horse 
move  knows  all  that  there  is  to  be  known  of  the 
art  of  dancing,"  says  an  old  writer  upon  ^Esthetics. 
The  gleanings  of  him  who  has  spent  hours  by  the 
road-side  with  a  broken  axle  do  not  go  beyond 
immobility.  But  the  whole  case  for  beauty  in 
the  car  is  given  away  by  its  proper  advocates. 
What  panegyrist  of  mechanical  traction  is  there 
who,  after  a  picture  of  the  road  gleaming  white 

115 


Alarums  and  Excursions 

in  the  moonlight,  will  refrain  from  saying  that 
the  driver  "opened  out  her  throttle  and  felt 
the  car  bound  beneath  him  like  a  live  thing  "  ? 
Whereas  the  horse  is  a  live  thing.  .  .   . 

The  value  of  a  motor-car  may  be  determined 
by  a  computation  of  the  cost  of  production  plus  the 
margin  of  profit  current  in  the  trade.  Roughly 
it  is  worth  a  thousand  pounds  or  it  is  not.  If 
it  be  worth  a  thousand  pounds  you  will  get  that 
sum  for  it,  and  I,  who  know  less  about  a  car  than 
Mr  Harry  Tate's  assistant,  will,  after  a  visit  to  a 
shop  assistant's  tailor  and  three  weeks'  tuition  in 
the  art  of  "approaching  "  customers,  sell  as  many 
as  the  next  fellow.  You  can  sell  a  car  on  paper, 
by  specification,  before  it  is  made.  Twenty 
thousand  young  sprigs  are  there  who,  were  they 
driven  to  earn  their  own  living,  would  take  to 
selling  Rolls-Royces  as  easily  as  Jews  to  money- 
lending.  They  have  only  to  stare  through  the 
shop  windows  of  Bond  Street  from  the  other 
side.  But  give  them  a  poor  horse,  worth  twelve 
hundred  when  he  is  fit,  and  ask  them  to  get  that 
sum  for  him  !  For  the  value  of  a  horse  is  not 
determined  by  the  supply  and  demand  ruling  in 
the  trade,  so  much  as  by  what  you  can  persuade 
the  customer  to  think  of  him  as  an  individual. 
This  is  the  selling  which  is  an  art. 

Of  what  cylindered  thing  could  you  write  such 
a  description  as  this  of  Ophelia.'* 

"The  first  time  I  ever  saw  her  was  at  Lord 
Londesborough's  Stud  Farm,  near  Market 
ii6 


Cackle  and  ^Osses 

Weighton.  I  was  driving  along  the  road  and 
she  was  running  in  the  fields.  When  she  heard 
the  rattle  of  our  trap  she  raised  her  head,  pricked 
up  her  ears  and  stood  at  attention,  a  living 
picture  I  shall  never  forget.  She  had  a  perfect 
head  and  neck,  full  of  character,  going  back 
with  beautiful  symmetry  into  splendidly  sloped 
shoulders  that  only  Denmark  could  hand  down 
from  his  great  sire,  Sir  Charles,  the  grandest 
horse  and  best  goer  that  Yorkshire  had  then 
produced.  We  got  out  of  our  trap  and  walked 
over  to  the  hedge,  where  we  stood  looking  at 
her,  spellbound,  for  we  recognised  that  we  were 
in  the  presence  of  the  finest  Hackney  mare  we 
had  ever  seen.  She  looked  sixteen  hands  high, 
so  majestic  was  her  bearing,  although  as  a  matter 
of  fact  her  height  was  only  fifteen  hands  and  a 
quarter  of  an  inch.  She  was  a  long,  low  mare 
to  the  ground,  with  a  back  as  level  as  a  billiard 
table  and  her  tail  set  right  on  the  end  of  it,  with 
no  sign  of  a  droop  in  her  quarters.  And  when 
she  walked  away  from  us  up  went  her  tail  as  if 
it  had  been  set  up.  She  stood  on  a  set  of  legs 
made  of  whipcord  and  steel,  every  thew  and 
sinew  standing  out  clean  and  distinct,  and  her 
feet  were  of  ivory,  so  dense  and  close  was  the 
texture.  If  you  had  put  a  hood  over  her  neck 
you  would  have  said  her  back  was  too  long,  but 
she  was  wonderfully  ribbed  up,  and  her  last  rib 
was,  I  think,  the  deepest  I  ever  saw  on  a  horse 
of  anything  like  her  size.  When  set  alight  her 
action   was   perfect.      She    lived   in   the   air  and 

117 


Alarums  and  Excursions 

only  cLime  down  to  the  earth  to  kiss  it.     As  old 

S ,  the  vet,  who  bred  Gentleman  John,  used 

to  say,  she  could  go  as  high  as  wild  geese  can  fly. 
The  first  thing  that  struck  me  when  I  saw 
Ophelia  for  the  first  time  was  the  beautiful 
balance  of  her  lines  and  proportions,  and  I  took 
off  my  hat  to  her  as  my  mistress  instructor  in  the 
balance  of  a  horse. 

In  191 2  I  stayed  with  the  late  Tom  Smith,  the 
owner  of  her  grandson,  Admiral  Crichton,^  and  we 
drove  over  in  the  morning  with  the  late  William 
Foster  to  Frank  Batchelor's  place  for  his  dispersal 
sale.  There  I  saw  Ophelia  for  the  last  time. 
She  was  out  in  the  meadow,  and  the  moment  we 
rattled  our  hats  up  went  her  head  and  tail,  and 
she  trotted  away  with  the  same  fascinating  force 
and  elegance  as  when  I  had  first  seen  her  as 
a  three-year-old,  a  quarter  of  a  century  before." 

I  should  like  to  read  the  man  who  could  write 
like  this  of  a  steam-engine  or  a  motor-bus.  It 
takes  a  horseman  to  recognise  twelve  hundred 
pounds  running  loose  in  a  field,  to  get  that  sum 
or  to  give  it.  I,  who  know  nothing  about  cars, 
will  undertake  to  give  twelve  hundred  to-morrow 
morning  and  bring  home  some  thousand  pounds' 
worth  at  the  worst.  But  your  dapper  little 
gentleman  shall  put  twelve  hundred  pounds  in 
his  pocket  and  buy  a  horse  running  in  a  field, 
and  he  will  be  lucky  indeed  if  he  do  not  have  to 
take  fifty  the  next  time  Crewe  sales  come  round. 

*  This,  and  not  Admirable  Ciichton,  was  actually  the  horse's  name, 
118 


Cackle  and  ^Osses 

Your  motorist  may  say  that  I  have  only  to  go  to 
the  right  shop.  Well,  I  will  take  him  to  the 
right  field.  .  .   . 

Old  S was  the  finest  horseman  of  my  time. 

In  appearance  he  was  a  composition  of  Coquelin 
and  Lord  Lonsdale.  He  had  the  comedian's 
"titled  sensitive  nose,  which  seemed  to  flick  like 
a  terrier's."  His  irascibility  was  well  known  all 
over  the  East  Riding,  whilst  even  his  geniality 
had  some  quality  of  terror.  He  wore  a  roundish 
bowler  hat  of  the  type  you  can  see  in  the  back 
numbers  of  Punch,  and  brown  cloth  gaiters. 
Between  them  his  covering  seemed  to  consist 
solely  of  a  stone-coloured  Melton  overcoat. 
This  had  eight  buttons  in  mother-of-pearl,  the 
size  of  half-crowns,  and  made  still  gayer  by  repre- 
sentations of  steeple-chasing,  tandem-driving, 
coaching,  the  death  of  Reynard,  duck-shooting, 
coursing,  the  Hackney  mare  Bounce,  and  her 
son.    Gentleman   John.      There   was   about    old 

S something  of  the  horse-dealer  in  the  print 

Messrs  Screwdriver  and  Reardones  Opinions  con- 
cerning ''The  Prize,"  own  brother  to  ''Lottery,'' 
on  the  first  of  May  1841,  a  copy  of  which  and  its 
fellow  hung  in  his  front  parlour.  You  know  the 
old  picture — the  yard,  the  dealer  all  geniality,  the 
customer  all  simpleness,  the  ostler  who  might 
have  stood  for  a  model  of  Fagin,  the  tight  old 
groom  cleaning  a  bridle,  the  rude  little  boy 
pulling  bacon,  the  screw  himself,  ears  well  back, 
tail  set  up,  every  inch  a  rogue.  Underneath, 
the  legend  :     "  There's  a  boss,  Mr  Green.     Only 

119 


Alarums  and  Excursions 

feel  them  legs,  sir.  Six  years  old,  never  did 
a  day's  work  in  his  life,  up  to  twenty  stone, 
thoroughbred  as  Eclipse,  and  can  gallop  like  a 
pony.  I  gave  two  hundred  for  him  at  Rugely 
last  week,  and  old  Andrews  wished  he  might  be 
damned  if  he  warn't  the  cheapest  nag  in  the  fair. 
He  offered  me  twenty  pound  for  the  buying  on 
him,  to  carry  a  werry  good  customer  of  his'n,  the 
Hemperor  of  Russia,  a  heavy  man,  but  I  know'd 
he'd  suit  you,  Mr  Green,  so  I  didn't  mind  throwing 
the  Hemperor  over — specially  as  he  warn't  no 
customer  of  mine.  If  you  gives  me  two  hundred 
and  fifty  and  takes  and  rides  him  as  I  knows  you 

will  ride  him,   I'll  pound  it  the  Herl  of   P 

sends  you  a  cheque  for  Five  hundred  pounds  for 
him  the  first  day  the  Queen  goes  down  into  the 
grass  below  Harrow." 

And  then  the  fellow-print :  Messrs  Screwdriver 
and  Rear  done  s  Opinions  concerning  "  The 
Prize,''  own  brother  to  ''Lottery,''  the  property  of 
James  Green,  Esquire,  on  the  1st  October  1841. 
The  figures  are  the  same,  the  situation  alone 
is  altered.  "So  he  is,  Mr  Green,  a  useful 
animal,  very.  But  lord,  sir,  only  just  look  in  my 
stables,  full  as  ever  they  can  hold.  I  haven't 
sold  a  boss  these  two  months.  .  .  .  However, 
Mr  Green,  to  oblige  you  I'll  take  him  at  harness 
price — thirty  pounds — if  you'll  warrant  him^— 
he's  worth  a  deal  more  I  dessay,  but  at  this  time 
of  year  I'd  rather  not  have  him  at  all,  'pon  my 
life,  I  wouldn't.     Mind,  Mr  Green,  I  said  pounds, 


not  gumeas. 
120 


Cackle  and  ^Osses 

None  was   safe  from  the   lash   of  old  S- 


irony.  It  is  recorded  of  him  that  in  a  deal  with 
one  of  his  cronies  he  swopped  a  cottage  piano 
for  a  brood  mare.  But  when  the  mare  arrived 
she  turned  out  to  be  not  the  agreed  animal  but  a 
substitute,  poor,  stale  as  a  bone,  herring-gutted. 

Whereupon  old  S took  the  works  out  of  his 

piano  and  dispatched  the  empty  case.  The 
parties  remained  the  best  of  friends  ;  those  were 
not  the  days  of  weak-kneed  lawsuits.  It  was  a 
case  of  pull  devil,  pull  baker,  and  victory  to  the 
stronger. 

Some  little  time  afterwards  the  substituter  of 

the  mare  bought  from  old  S a  harness  gelding 

which,  on  arrival,  turned  out  to  be  an  aged  stud- 
horse.  To  the  laconic  telegram  :  "  Your  gelding  is 

a  stallion,"  S replied:  "  I  know,  and  so  was  his 

father  before  him."  Both  stories  are  apocryphal, 
and  in  any  case  the  feud  was  an  avowed  and 
friendly  one.  In  his  dealings  with  the  outer 
world  the  old  grentleman  was  a  model  of  what 
a  horseman  should  be.  He  would  not  pull  out 
an  animal  on  Sunday  or  Good  Friday  or  Christmas 
Day  for  the  best  customer  breathing,  though  on 
weekdays  he  worked  himself  and  his  family  from 
four  in  the  morning  till  four  the  next.  Like  a 
good  horseman  he  never  really  slept. 

Perhaps   the   best  animal   S ever  owned 

was  Bounce.  She  was  bought  as  a  two-year-old 
for  one  hundred  and  twenty  pounds  from  George 
Wakefield,  farmer  and  horse-breeder  of  Messing- 
ham.   Lines,  turned  away  and  brought  up  again 

121 


Alarums  and  Excursions 

as  a  three-year-old  to  be  broken  to  harness. 
And  then,  as  the  old  gentleman  used  to  say : 
"  Nobody  could  mak'  nowt  on  her.  She  wouldn't 
hev  it.  She  broke  all  her  harness,  and  the  only 
man  as  ever  tried  to  get  on  her  that  day  never 
tried  again."  So  into  the  char-a-banc  she  had  to 
go,  a  char-a-banc  in  those  times  being  a  "  numb  " 
thing,  in  the  pin  of  which  a  refractory  animal 
could  hurt  neither  itself,  its  neighbours  nor  its 
driver.  Bounce  was  put  into  the  pin  between 
the  other  two  horses,  and  driven  with  a  load  of 
excursionists  from  Hull  to  Bridlington,  a  distance 
of  thirty-four  miles,  and  back  again.  At  Driffield, 
on  the  return  journey,  or  fifteen  miles  from  home, 
the  driver  reported  that  she  "gave  in."  For  the 
last  few  miles  it  was  only  the  two  poles  that  held 
the  mare  up,  and  on  being  taken  out  she  collapsed. 
During  the  whole  of  that  day  she  had  refused 
food,  and  now  took  an  oatmeal  drench  with  as  ill- 
grace  as  any  hunger-striker.  Next  morning  her 
legs  were  like  millposts,  and  generally  she  was 
very  sorry  for  herself.     This  was  the  mood  old 

S- •   was  waiting  for.      He  put  a  saddle   and 

bridle  on  her  and  she  carried  him  quietly.  The 
same  night  he  drove  the  mare  in  single  harness 
on  his  round,  and  for  several  weeks  afterwards 
she  did  her  eight  or  ten  hours  on  the  road.  She 
was  no  "hollow-pampered  jade  of  Asia  which 
cannot  go  but  thirty   miles   a   day."     Next  she 

was  sold   to   B ,   a   London  dealer,   for  two 

hundred  guineas,  and  presently  going  through 
a  shop  window  in  Piccadilly  was  again  for  sale. 

122 


Cackle  and  ""Osses 

B wrote   to  S ,   who   immediately   went 

up  to  London,  ostensibly  a  country  customer  for 
the  animal,  actually  to  see  the  amount  of  damage 
done.  This  turned  out  to  be  small.  In  an  inter- 
view with  the  young  swell  S said  that,  to 

look  at,  she  seemed  a  "  nicesh "  mare,  and  a 
"good  sort."  He  asked  whether  this  had  hap- 
pened before,  how  long  she  had  been  in  her 
present  ownership,  whether  she  had  ever  been 
ridden,  who  bred  her,  the  usual  mystifications  of 
the  dealer  buying  back  his  own.  Finally,  if  his 
lordship,  who  was  asking  two  hundred  guineas, 
cared  to  send  the  mare  on  at  twenty-seven  pounds 
— not  guineas — and  would  warrant  her,  his  lord- 
ship could  do  so.      His  lordship  did. 

On   her   return   to    Hull    she   did    all    S 's 

veterinary  rounds,  together  with  the  work  of  the 
fire-brigade,  the  prison-van  and  the  job-yard.  She 
was  exhibited  at  shows  all  over  the  country-side, 
and  on  her  last  public  appearance  carried  off  the 
championship  at  the  Great  Lincolnshire.  Retired 
to  the  stud  she  bred  seventeen  foals,  fourteen 
colts  and  three  fillies.  Her  most  famous  son 
was  Gentleman  John,  perhaps  the  most  beautiful 
Hackney  stallion  which  ever  set  foot  in  a  show- 
yard.  With  an  injection  of  two  grains  of 
strychnine  and  corded  he  was  also  one  of  the 
finest  movers  ever  seen  ;  but  as  both  these  means 
of  showing  a  horse  are  illegitimate,  it  were  per- 
haps more  honest  to  judge  him  standing.  Even 
then  he  was  worth  every  penny  of  the  four 
thousand  pounds  he  fetched  in  his  prime.     The 

123 


Alarums  and  Excursions 

last  time  he  was  sold  was  at  Crewe  for,  if  I 
remember  rightly,  fourteen  guineas.  It  is 
pleasant  to  think  that  this  sum  was  given  to  save 
the  old  horse  from  that  last  dread  traffic  which 
ends  in  Belgium. 

"  Something  better  than  his  dog,  a  little  dearer 
than  his  horse  "  is  to  put  the  friend  of  man  on  a 

lowish  level.     Old  S used  to  tell  a  yarn  of 

a  country  squire  whose  wife  lay  ill  in  bed  with 
pneumonia.  Finding  his  favourite  hunter  shak- 
ing in  his  box  he  rushed  indoors,  tore  the  blankets 
from  his  wife's  bed  and  put  them  on  his  dearer 
prize.  Your  horse  is  a  great  provoker  of 
sincerity. 

On  his  death-bed  S called  his  sons  round 

him. 

"  My  feyther  left  me  nowt,"  he  said,  "and  A'm 
leaving  yo  nowt.  A'm  leaving  all  my  brass  i' 
trust  for  my  grandchilder." 

"That's  no  matter,  Dad,"  replied  the  eldest- 
born.  "  You've  left  us  the  wide  world  to  roam  in." 

"An'  I  reckon  it'll  be  wide  enough  to  hold  ye," 
the  old  man  retorted.  And  so  saying,  died. 
When  his  private  papers  were  gone  through 
they  were  found  to  consist  of  the  most  ordinary 
business  memoranda.  His  had  been  a  life 
entirely  without  secrets.  One  envelope  alone 
was  sealed.  It  bore  the  following  inscription  : — 
"  Prescription  for  Worm  Pouders  to  be  opened 
after  my  death  to  the  one  that  follows  the  busi- 
ness to  be  kept  secret." 

A  visit  to  the  old  farm  which  has  now  changed 
124 


Cackle  and  ^Osses 

hands   is   not   without   melancholy.     Some  little 

time  ago  young  S took  me  over  and  proudly 

showed  me  the  stone  boxes  with  their  tenants' 
names  over  the  door  and  their  effigies  carved  on 
the  lintel.  Here  is  Bounce's  box,  next  to  hers 
is  Gentleman  John's,  here  Tip-top's,  Topper's, 
Merlin's.  Let  into  the  wall  at  the  entrance  to 
the  yard  is  a  tablet  in  white  stone,  marking  the 
spot  where  the  mare  lies  buried.  It  bears  the 
following  inscription  : — 

IN    MEMORY    OF    THE    HACKNEY    MARE, 

Bounce,  h.s.b.  No.  36 

A  mare  they  called  Bounce  in  this  grave  lies  at  rest, 

She's  left  stock  behind  her  of  the  very  best. 

She  was  over  fifteen  hands  high  and  her  colour  dark  brown, 

A  brood  mare  or  in  harness  in  the  show-ring  well  known. 

Her  last  record  in  the  show-ring  to  end  her  show  career 

When   she   was   fourteen    years   of   age   she   won   the   great 

Lincolnshire. 
And  she  was  plucky  to  the  last  with  her  action  fresh  and  free. 
The  time  she  reigned  upon  this  earth  was  thirty  years  and 

three. 

Gentleman  John 
Winner  of  the 
Challenge  Cup 

in  America 
Outright.     1904. 

Against  all 
Nations  judged 
by  Americans. 

The  poet  is  one  Northard  of  Reedness,  Goole. 
I  know  of  no  other  works  of  his. 

125 


Alarums  and  Excursions 

Let  me  recount  one  other  Yorkshire  history, 
that  of  Taylor's  Performer,  from  whom  the  great 
OpheHa  and  all  our  modern  harness  horses  are 
descended.  In  the  year  1840  James  Taylor,  of 
Pocklington,  a  poor  groom,  borrowed  from  his 
master  the  sum  of  nineteen  pounds,  wherewith  to 
purchase  a  chestnut  roadster  colt  foal  which  had 
taken  his  fancy.  Too  poor  to  keep  the  foal,  he 
agreed  with  some  horse-dealers  of  Givendale  to 
sell  them  a  half-share  in  it,  in  return  for  which  they 
promised  to  keep  it  until  the  age  of  three  years. 
When  in  three  years'  time  the  poor  groom  claimed 
his  half  of  the  horse  the  dealers  denied  the  bargain, 
and,  swearing  that  Taylor  was  only  their  servant, 
refused  to  give  up  the  horse  or  any  share  of  the 
money  he  had  earned.  They  then  shut  the 
animal  up  in  a  barn,  which  they  secured  with 
lock  and  key.  Advised  by  his  lawyer  that  he 
must  not  break  a  lock,  the  groom  went  at  dead 
of  night  with  a  friendly  brick-layer  and  removed 
the  window-casement  at  the  back  of  the  barn. 
Making  a  slope  of  litter,  he  led  out  the  horse 
which,  to  the  barn-breaker's  horror,  promptly 
emitted  a  loud  neigh.  Fortunately  the  dealers 
slept  on  both  ears  that  night,  and  Taylor  got  his 
horse  away.  After  travelling  as  far  as  Leicester, 
he  boldly  took  the  animal  back  to  Givendale, 
was  arrested  for  theft,  tried  and  acquitted.  The 
horse  was  put  up  to  auction  and  knocked  down  to 
Taylor  at  one  hundred  and  fifty  guineas,  which 
was  advanced  by  the  kindly  master  who  had 
supported  him  all  along.  Afterwards  known  as 
126 


Cackle  and  "^Osses 

Taylor's  Performer,  the  horse  became  the  sire 
of  Sir  Charles,  who  begat  Denmark,  who  begat 
Danegelt.  In  1884  was  foaled  Ophelia,  the 
daughter  of  Denmark  or  Danes^elt — it  will  never 
be  known  which. 

When,  many  years  afterwards,  the  late  Frank 
Batchelor  broke  up  his  stud,  this  grand  old  mare 
alone  was  retained  to  end  her  days  in  peace. 
There,  amid  the  cheerful  noises  of  the  farm,  in 
"pastoral  fields  burned  by  the  setting  sun,"  she 
was  to  live  out  the  remainder  of  her  days.  Is 
it  outside  poetic  fancy  to  imagine  that,  like  any 
human,  "with  each  slow  step"  and  perhaps 
nibbling  here  and  there  a  mouthful,  she  did 
"  curiously  inspect  our  lasting  home  "  ?  When 
she  was  brought  out  and  paraded  for  the  last  time, 
all  the  bidders  and  those  who  had  not  a  brass 
farthing — grooms,  strappers,  horse-copers,  the  in- 
describable rag  tag  and  bobtail  that  gather  round 
a  sale  ringr — rose  as  one  man.  Rascals  who 
would  curse  their  mothers  stood  up  in  their 
places,  removed  the  straws  from  their  mouths 
and  respectfully  took  off  their  hats.  Ophelia's 
offspring  were  Lord  Hamlet,  Rosencrantz, 
Polonius,  Fortinbras — afterwards  and  less  happily 
re-named  Heathfield  Squire,  the  only  horse 
which  ever  beat  the  great  Forest  King — Royal 
Ophelian,  Miss  Terry  —  in  compliment  to  the 
actress  who  had  just  charmed  England  with  her 
Ophelia — and  Ophelia's  Daughter  Grace.  And 
here, the  Shakespearean  style  and  title  ends,  and 
the   names  of  the  remaining  children,  including 

127 


Alarums  and  Excursions 

the  great  son  Mathias,  are  not  to  my  purpose. 
I  shudder  to  record  that  to  a  horse  with  a  double 
cross  of  the  Ophelia  blood  has  been  given  the 
name  Ophelius,  a  horrid  invention  to  be  brought 
to  the  notice  of  some  Academy  of  Equine  Taste. 
It  sometimes  happens  that  horses  born  to  studs 
in  unlikely  places  have  to  be  re-named  before 
being  sent  into  the  show-ring.  It  would  never 
do  to  saddle  a  show-horse  with  a  name  of  plebeian 
origin.  Just  as  the  Misses  Lizzie  Sinclair  and 
Susie  Miggs,  of  999b  Petticoat  Lane,  will  appear 
on  the  West  End  stage  as  the  elegant  and 
dashing  Mesdames  Elise  St  Clair  and  Suzanne 
de  Volte  -  Face,  so  will  those  homely  nags, 
Bermondsey  Bill  and  Whitechapel  Walter,  suffer 
a  Richmond-and-Olympia  change  to  the  princes 
Florizel  of  Mayfair  and  Charming  of  Piccadilly. 
But  they  will  be  their  mothers'  sons  for  all  that. 
The  champion  harness-horse  of  this  present  year 
is  called  Dark  Legend — a  beautiful  name  ;  but 
then  he  comes  from  beautiful  Camilla  Lacey. 
The  house  that  Fanny  Burney  built  is  now  the 
headquarters  of  one  of  the  finest  Hackney  studs 
in  the  country.  To  what  different  uses  men  and 
things  may  come ! 

I  love  the  harness  horse.  I  love  the  way 
in  which,  emergent  from  his  rugs  in  treasured 
splendour,  he  is  sent  into  the  arena.  There  the 
artistry  of  preparation  and  the  rascality  of  pre- 
parers come  to  fruition.  Your  true  showman  is 
immune  from  misadventure  save  that  which  may 
befall  his  horse,  proof  against  sorrow,  impervious 

128 


Cackle  and  ^Osses 

to  natural  shock.  Wife,  child — they  should  have 
died  hereafter. 

Your  true  horseman  would  rather  drive  over 
Yorkshire  moors  to  mend  a  pair  of  damaged 
forelegs  than  pass  in  review  the  ancient  statuary 
of  Greece.  On  the  last  of  such  excursions  young 
S it  was  who  drove  me  in  a  heavy  pig- 
cart,  with  a  Hackney  mare  twenty-four  years  old 
between  the  shafts,  over  some  four  miles  of  rough 
up-hill  track  in  less  than  twenty-four  minutes. 
She  had  that  morning  taken  a  load  to  Beverley, 
a  distance  there  and  back  of  eighteen  miles,  and 
looked  as  fit  as  a  fiddle  and  fresh  as  a  daisy. 
Her  sire  was  Gentleman  John  and  her  dam 
a  mare  by  Danegelt,  who  was  by  Denmark, 
by  Sir  Charles,  again  by  Taylor's  Performer, 
the  horse  belonging  to  our  poor  Yorkshire 
groom. 

I  love  these  Yorkshire  moors  ;  every  blade  of 
grass  prates  of  the  horse's  whereabout.  In  all 
fiction  the  landscape  which  has  most,  even 
though  vaguely,  remained  with  me  is  the  park- 
land through  which   Meredith  takes  Diana  and 

Lady '  for  a  drive  on  a  wettish  day  with  a 

sou'wester  blowing.  But  the  country  badly  needs 
a  horse  besides  that  or  those  in  the  carriage,  and 
I  would  give  all  the  brilliant  chatter  for  a  picture 
of  some  Ophelia  over  the  hedge,  trotting  away 

'  There  are  borrower's  gaps  in  my  shelves.  Seven  times  have  I  sent 
to  the  local  library  for  the  lady's  name,  but  on  each  occasion  Diana  has 
been  out.  It  would  appear  that  unfashionable  interest  in  this  author  is  not 
on  the  wane.  Who  would  have  thought  the  old  man  to  have  had  so  much 
blood  in  him  ? 

I  129 


Alarums  and  Excursions 

from  you,  wearing  two  good  ends  and  using 
hocks  and  stifles. 

I  have  known  some  eventful  days  in  my  life. 
There  was  the  day  when  my  first  dramatic  criti- 
cism was  printed,  when  my  first  book  appeared, 
when  I  put  on  uniform  and  again  when  I  put  it 
off.  There  was  the  day  when  I  first  beheld  in 
the  flesh  the  Editor  of  The  Saturday  Review,  and 
two  days  on  which  I  was  to  realise  that  Stevenson 
drew  a  lon^ish  bow  when  he  said  :  "  A  writer  can 
live  by  his  writing  ;  if  not  so  luxuriously  as  by 
other  trades,  then  less  luxuriously."^  I  count 
such  illumination  happiness. 

^  A  well-known  writer  has  warned  budding  authors  that  it  is  of  no  use 
writing  masterpieces  unless  you  are  prepared  to  stand  out  for  their  full 
market  value.  As  a  very  young  man  I  had  an  experience  which  may 
serve  as  an  awful  warning  to  other  very  young  men  with  a  belief  in  the 
commercial  generosity  of  the  world  in  general,  and  newspaper  proprietors 
in  particular.  In  January  1906  I  sent  a  letter  on  some  theatrical  subject 
to  the  editor  of  a  North  of  England  halfpenny  paper,  of  great  wealth, 
influence  and  circulation.  This  was  inserted.  Some  time  afterwards  an 
arrangement  was  concluded  whereby  I  was  to  undertake  the  dramatic 
criticism  of  the  paper  for  one  year.  This  l)eing  my  first  literary  venture, 
I  was  naturally  modest  as  to  its  value  and  ignorant  also  of  the  rates  paid 
by  newspapers  for  such  copy.  To  be  perfectly  candid,  I  was  anxious  to 
try  my  hand  at  a  year's  'prentice  work,  quite  content  if  I  received  the 
lowest  scale  of  remuneration  paid  to  the  worst  kind  of  reporting.  In  my 
ndiveti  I  proposed  to  leave  it  to  the  editor  of  the  paper  to  pay  me  at 
Cliiistmas  whatever  sum  he  should  then  consider  the  articles  to  have  been 
worth.     To  this  he  agreed. 

During  that  year  I  went  to  the  theatre  some  forty-nine  times  and  con- 
tributed some  forty-nine  articles  frcmi  a  third  to  three-quarters  of  a  column 
in  length.  As  I  found  that  whenever  I  made  reference  to  Sarah 
Bernhardt  the  paper  next  morning  printed  Sarah  Dewhurst,  I  made  a 
practice  of  slaying  in  the  office  until  two,  three,  or  even  four  o'clock  in  the 
morning  to  correct  my  proofs.  When  Christmas  Eve  came  I  received 
a  letter  from  the  editor  enclosing  a  cheque  for  seven  guineas,  which 
amount  he  said  he  had  increased  from  the  five  originally  contemplated, 
"owing  to  the  superior  quality  of  the  work."  Now  I  maintain  that 
either  (a)  the  proprietors  of  the  journal  still  owe  me  a  considerable  sum  or 
(h)  that  they  were  guilty  of  extraordinary  discourtesy  and  unfairness  both 
to  their  readers  and  to  the  theatrical  profession  in  publishing  dramatic 

130 


Cackle  and  '^Osses 

But  none  of  these  days,  how  glorious  soever 
in  eventfuhiess  or  illumination,  is  comparable 
in  rapture  with  that  on  which  my  little  David — 
First  Edition  was  his  Stud  Book  name — pitted 
himself  against  orreat  Goliath — the  fifteen-two 
Haddon  Marphil — and  beat  that  giant  for  the 
championship  of  a  great  North  of  England  show. 
Round  and  round  the  enormous  track  they  went, 
the  big  horse  collected,  within  himself,  going 
great  guns,  the  pony  beating  him  for  pace,  out- 
shining majesty  with  fussy  self-importance.  So 
you  may  compare  the  ocean-going  liner  with  the 
steam-tug  breasting  the  Thames,  and  breaking  up 
that  placid  bosom  into  impertinent  ruffles.  So 
did  First  Edition  break  up  the  show-ring  into 
foam  and  spume,  a  flurry  of  white  socks.  When 
the  little  fellow  had  gone  ten  laps  to  the  big 
horse's  nine,  the  judge  went  with  the  crowd  and 

criticism  which  they  were  honourably  convinced  was  not  of  greater  value. 
The  dilemma  is  perfect.  It  was  on  the  strength  of  these  articles  that 
I  received  and  accepted  an  invitation  to  join  the  critical  staff  of  TAe 
Alanchester  Guardian. 

On  the  day  some  fourteen  years  later  on  which  I  took  the  MS.  of 
Responsibility  to  my  publisher  I  treated  myself  to  luncheon  at  a  famous 
restaurant.  I  had  never  taken  any  interest  in  the  huckstering  side  of 
literature,  and  was  uncertain  therefore  as  to  the  amount  which  might 
be  demanded  on  account  of  royalties.  Seeking  a  line  through  honest 
industry,  I  asked  one  of  the  less  tremendous  doorkeepers  of  the  famous 
eating-house  what  his  earnings  were.  "  Four  pounds  a  week,  sir, 
reg'lar."  Now  the  book  had  taken  two  years'  hard  work,  which,  at  a 
doorkeeper's  rate,  amounts  to  some  four  hundred  pounds.  Modestly 
I  determined  to  ask  two,  but  my  interview  ultimately  resulted  in  a  meagre 
cheque  for  fifty.  "You  see,  my  dear  fellow,"  said  my  publisher  with  his 
most  charming  smile,  "the  chasseur  fulfils  a  useful  function."  The  bill 
for  typing  came  to^^zi,  15s.,  author's  corrections  ^/^  25,  agent's  fee  £2,  los., 
leaving  me  a  net  profit  of  fifteen  shillings,  on  which  I  submit  that 
existence  for  two  years  would  need  to  be  of  the  "less  luxurious"  order. 
I  understand  that  the  royalties  actually  earned  fell  short  of  the  amount 
generously  advanced. 


Alarums  and  Excursions 

gave  him  best.  He  stood  thirteen  and  a  half 
hands  high,  had  a  leg  at  each  corner  and  a  heart 
of  gold.  In  his  box  children  could  play  with  him  ; 
in  his  leather  he  was  a  ball  of  fury.  There  was 
nothing  royal  about  him  ;  he  was  not  even  a 
patrician.  He  was  a  commoner,  a  Povey  with 
a  dash  of  Denry,  and  he  had  the  daemonic  energy 
of  Denry's  creator.  He  went  better  at  the 
fortieth  tour  of  the  ring  than  at  the  first,  although 
when  he  had  eone  half-a-dozen  times  round  he 
would  edge  towards  the  judges  m  the  centre,  so 
accustomed  was  he  to  be  the  first  to  be  called  in. 
When  the  war  broke  out  I  sold  him  to  a  butcher 
to  hearten  the  streets  of  some  manufacturing 
town.  What  has  since  become  of  him  I  know 
not.     Would  I  were  with  him  wheresoe'er  he  is ! 


132 


The  Art  of  the  Guitrys 

IN  the  spring  of  1920  a  number  of  the  plays 
of  the  younger  Guitry  were  produced  in 
London  with  the  assistance  of  M.  Guitry 
the  elder.  The  success  of  Nono  is  very  far 
removed  from  that  dismal  thing,  the  success  of 
scandal ;  it  is  an  intimate  and  vivacious  account 
of  the  sentimental  adventures  of  a  couple  of 
niichJs  and  their  gigolo — to  borrow  the  classicisms 
of  the  Place  Blanche.  "  To  distrust  one's 
impulses  is  to  be  recreant  to  Pan,"  wrote  the 
most  moral  of  literary  fauns,  surely  a  direct  en- 
couragement to  the  timid  to  enjoy  any  play  which 
moves  frankly  and  amusingly  just  below  the 
recognised  surface,  on  the  fringe  of  the  just  not 
fashionable  half- world.  It  encourages  the  shy  to 
find  that  young  simpleton  natural  who  hesitates 
between  the  return  of  his  mistress  and  the  return 
of  four  thousand  francs,  to  laugh  at  the  witty 
compoundings  of  the  worldly  buffoon  who  has 
stolen  both ;  and  to  find  also  that  little  lady 
not  recreant  to  Pan,  who,  when  invited  to  choose 
between  her  lovers,  calmly  replies  :  "  (^a  m'est 
^gal!  "  To  have  a  lover  at  all  costs,  just  not  to 
be  "landed,"  is  the  reasonable  philosophy  of  her 
world. 

Plump  into  his  cauldron  of  bubbling  wit 
M.  Guitry  drops  an  ice-cold  morsel  of  intellectual 
honesty,  his  little  lady's  matter-of-fact  accept- 
ance of  her  destiny.  ''Ma  mere  en  etait,  ma 
sceur  en  est,  moi  fen  suis,  que  voulez-vous  ? " 
She  is  as  her  mother  was,  and  her  sister  is. 
What      would      you?        Mademoiselle      Yvonne 

133 


Alarums  and  Excursions 

Printemps  played  Nono  very  well  indeed.  Her 
manners,  gestures,  intonation,  accent  were  all 
adorably  canaille  ;  she  hit  off  the  required 
commonness  to  a  nicety.  M.  Sacha  Guitry's 
middle-aged  lover  was  clever  enough  to  be  just 
faintly  disagreeable.  The  playwright  has  created 
a  pair  of  vicious,  vacuous  babies,  in  neither  of 
whom  does  there  seem  justification  for  quite  the 
venom  which  he,  as  an  actor,  instilled  into  the 
one  he  played.  M.  Hieronimus  hardly  began 
to  act  at  all.  He  seemed  to  me  to  bring  to  his 
playing  exactly  the  same  personality  and  tricks 
of  manner  which  he  used  as  the  boy  in  Le  Vieux 
Marcheur.  Mademoiselle  Suzanne  Avril  showed 
a  delightful  sense  of  comedy  ;  but  the  finest  piece 
of  acting  of  all  was  the  waiter  of  M.  Glides. 
This  was  valetry  as  it  should  be  played,  a  piece 
of  ripe,  grave,  ineffable  fooling  that  would  have 
warmed  the  heart  of  Moliere. 

In  one  of  Balzac's  novels  there  is  an  old 
government  employee  who,  on  the  eve  of  his 
retirement,  petitions  his  old  enemy,  the  depart- 
mental wag.  "  Ecoutez,  Monsieur  Bixiou,  je 
n'ai  plus  que  cinq  jours  et  demi  a  rester  dans  les 
bureaux,  et  je  voudrais  une  fois,  une  seule  fois, 
avoir  le  plaisir  de  vous  comprendre ! "  The 
plain  Englishman  is  almost  as  much  mystified 
by  M.  Sacha  Guitry.  "  How  is  it  possible,"  he 
asks,  "for  the  a-moralities  of  La  Prise  de  Berg- 
op-Zoom  to  become  the  spiritualities  of  Pasteur  ? 
The    truth    is   that    there   has   been   no.  change. 


The  Art  of  the  Guitrys 

Both  qualities  have  always  existed  side  by  side 
in  M.  Guitry.  For  here  we  come  upon  a  funda- 
mental truth  about  French  character,  in  regard 
to  which  they  are  mystijlcateurs,  and  the  English 
so  many  functionaries  in  the  dark.  The  funda- 
mental quality  of  our  neighbours  is  their  essential 
gravity.  Sterne  was  right  when  he  said  that  if 
the  French  have  a  fault,  it  is  that  they  are  too 
serious.  Every  Englishman  wants,  au  fond,  to 
be  taken  seriously,  to  be  considered  a  responsible 
being  with  a  vote.  Mr  Chesterton  would  be 
staggered  if  you  were  to  read  his  paradoxes 
literally,  and  fail  to  detect  in  logic  on  her  head 
the  symbol  of  eternal  truth.  Almost,  I  am  con- 
vinced, would  Mr  Galsworthy  sacrifice  the  theatre 
for  the  Bench,  with  its  scope  for  leniency,  and 
Mr  Beerbohm  his  wit  and  pencil-hand  for  the 
earnestness  of  the  author  of  Justice.  Now  the 
ruling  passion  of  the  Frenchman  is  to  be  taken 
for  a  clown.  His  genius  for  fooling  has  been 
canonised  as  V esprit  gaulois.  He  is  the  master 
and  the  child  of  wit,  only  it  is  often  a  child 
very  near  to  crying.  Remember  Beaumarchais. 
M.  Guitry  is  devastatingly  witty  on  the  subject  of 
light  love  just  because,  in  his  country,  marriage 
is  such  an  essentially  serious  affair. 

I  do  not  care  very  greatly  for  the  acting  of 
M.  Sacha  Guitry.  His  creations,  when  he  plays 
them  himself,  strike  me  as  Faustian,  too  full  of 
elder  knowledge,  apt  to  see  evil  and  to  choose  it. 
"The  great  art  of  Congreve  is  especially  shown 
in   this,   that  he  has   entirely  excluded  from  his 


Alarums  and  Excursions 

scenes  not  only  anything  like  a  faultless  character, 
but  any  pretensions  to  oroodness  or  ofood  feeling-s 
whatsoever.  But  M.  Guitry  the  playwright  is, 
at  heart,  full  of  goodness  and  good  feelings.  He 
draws  morals.  These  may  be  only  a  shrug  of 
the  shoulders,  but  in  a  Frenchman's  shrug  a  world 
of  criticism  is  implied.  His  acting  it  is  which  is 
a-moral.  It  is  not  genial.  That  which  in  the 
plays  is  froth  in  the  acting  becomes  dregs. 
There  is  something  about  the  over-long  sleeves, 
the  enormous  tie,  the  too  facile  smile  which  is 
irresistibly  reminiscent  of  a  comedian  of  a  very 
different  order — the  late  Mark  Sheridan.  Wit 
which  should  be  as  beaded  bubbles  has  become 
a  low  and  evil  jocosity.  It  is  sinister,  even 
louche. 

Pasteur,  the  fine  iiower,  has  grown  out  of 
the  same  soil  as  these  earlier  and  venomous 
blossoms.  The  later  writer  is  still  never  jovial, 
never  riotous,  has  no  tinge  of  the  buffoon  ;  his 
weapon  is  the  rapier  and  not  the  bludgeon  ;  we 
are  to  surrender  ourselves  to  witty  thumps  on 
the  head,  not  on  the  back.  Landor  says  that 
true  wit  requires  the  grave  mind  and  reminds  us 
that  Rabelais  and  La  Fontaine  were  dreamers. 
"  Few  men  have  been  graver  than  Pascal.  Few 
men  have  been  wittier.  There  is  more  serious- 
ness in  M.  Guitry  than  his  wittiest  plays  might 
lead  us  to  suppose,  although  it  would  have  taken 
a  very  Bunthorne  to  find  more  innocent  fun  in 
Pasteur  than  a  casual  spectator  might  imagine. 
136 


The  Art  of  the  Guitrys 

It  has  been  said  that  this  is  not  really  a  play. 
Its  five  acts  break  every  canon.  There  is 
no  action,  no  development  of  character.  Yet 
these  acts  are  charged  with  a  rare  and  high 
emotion.  The  play  is,  as  any  play  ought  to  be, 
a  trifle  too  big  for  the  spectator.  It  gives  scope 
to  a  character  so  monumental  that  the  audience 
can't  quite  grasp  the  whole  of  him.  We  want  to 
turn  him  round,  to  see  the  other  side,  to  think 
him  over.  Yet  what  does  it  all  amount  to  I  A 
scene  or  two  of  defiant  scorn,  of  old  age  in  tender 
contemplation  of  youth,  of  the  approach  of  winter 
angering  an  untiring  and  unyielding  brain.  And 
that  is  all.  M.  Lucien  Guitry's  acting  of  Pasteur 
is  in  the  grand  tradition.  I  do  not  mean  that  it 
is  of  the  robustious  order.  Never,  indeed,  was 
acting  more  completely  "natural."  But  it  is  a 
performance  to  compel  the  admiration  of  all 
actors  of  all  times,  nationalities  and  schools. 
Johnson  would  have  found  some  sonority  to  fit 
it ;  Mr  Walkley  was  sobered  by  it  into  English. 
And  yet  it  is,  exteriorly,  nothing  more  than  a 
portrait  of  a  dictatorial  and  rather  boorish  pro- 
fessor, with  a  snuff-coloured  beard  and  sagging 
belly.  With  him  you  range  the  very  topmost 
peaks  of  human  grandeur.  Stevenson  says  of 
a  novel  by  Dumas  that  nowhere  is  the  end  of 
life  presented  with  so  fine  a  tact.  But  then  he 
had  not  seen  Lucien  Guitry  grow  old.  As  the 
actor's  body  dwindles  the  spirit  increases  ;  as  the 
tenant-soul  prepares  for  flight  the  house  falls  in. 
It   is    pitiful    and    glorious.      Like    that    greatest 

137 


Alarums  and  Excursions 

play  of  Ibsen  about  the  defaulting  stockbroker 
in  a  garret,  there  is  nothing  for  the  eye  here. 
Will,  that  superb  volonU  which  is  never  for  very 
long  out  of  a  Frenchman's  mouth,  is  stamped  in 
every  line  of  the  brow,  every  fine,  defiant  gesture, 
every  burning  word,  and  even  in  every  silence. 
It  is  the  will  of  Balzac  in  his  last  rebellion  against 
death,  of  our  own  Stevenson  in  his  passionate 
cherishing  of  his  shortened  span  of  life.  It  is, 
above  all,  the  will  to  do  right.  There  is  some- 
thing of  God  in  it.  No  praise  can  be  too  high 
for  the  grandeur  of  conception,  the  physical 
energy  and  speed  of  the  earlier  acts,  the  bodily 
slowing  down,  the  clarity  of  mind  unimpaired  at 
the  end. 


138 


A  View  of  The  Beggar's  Opera 

You  should  go  to  Hammersmith,  Child,  to  learn  Valour. 

Gay  {Adapted). 

HANG  the  age!  I  will  write  for  antiquity!' ' 
cried  a  fastidious  spirit.  "  Hang  the 
age!"  Mr  Nigel  Playfair  exclaims,  "I 
will  revive  for  the  past !  "  and  so  saying  pulls  out 
the  old  Beggar  s  Opera  and  enlists  a  popular  author 
to  help  in  the  text  revisions.  The  opera  is  an  en- 
chanting affair,  a  perfect  combination  of  "those 
two  good  things,  sense  and  sound."  Spontini, 
Cherubini,  Bellini,  Rossini,  Puccini — the  whole 
"ini"  family  have  done  nothing  more  fragrant 
than  this  bouquet  of  homely  melodies.  Of  the 
first  author  and  producer  of  this  play  it  is  possible 
to  be  handsomely  ignorant. 

"  Of  Doctor  Pepusch  old  Queen  Dido 
Knew  just  as  much,  God  knows,  as  I  do." 

Since  four  hours  is  too  much  of  a  good  thing  for 
modern  audiences  and  taste  has  degenerated,  let 
me,  poetising  in  turn,  imagine  Mr  Playfair  in 
soliloquy,  confronted  with  these  two-fold  difficulties 
of  space-time  and  century-taste. 

"  If  cut  I  must  this  be  my  tenet, 
The  cutter  shall  be  Arnold  Bennett, 
And  Pepusch'  spirit  won't  be  lost  in 
Sympathetic  Frederick  Austin  ; 
Whilst  how  to  act  the  tribe  of  Peachum 
It's  up  to  Nigel  P.  to  teach  'em." 

A  curious  adventure  to  find  the  perfect  enter- 
tainment in  this  modest  Hammersmith  playhouse. 

139 


Alarums  and  Excursions 

You  leave  the  unfashionable  street  to  mix  with  a 
crowd  of  shiny-faced  enthusiasts  who  have  not 
thought  it  necessary  to  bare  their  backs  and  tire 
their  heads  in  order  to  hear  better.  And  what  a 
world  of  romance  greets  you  on  the  stage,  the 
world  of  the  High-toby-crack  and  the  Ordinary, 
the  bridle-cull,  the  clay-faker,  the  buttock-and- 
file !  A  world  of  scoundrels  undismayed,  of 
rogues  with  a  sense  of  style,  doxies  and  wives, 
soon  to  be  hempen  widows,  gazing  tearless  upon 
the  heroic  turning-off.  Polly  was  of  gentler 
mould.  The  picture  she  makes  of  her  lover 
going  to  the  gallows  is  of  the  most  touching 
simplicity.  "  I  see  him  sweeter  than  the  nosegay 
in  his  hand  ;  the  admiring  crowd  lament  that  so 
lovely  a  youth  should  come  to  an  untimely  end  ; 
even  butchers  weep,  and  Jack  Ketch  refuses  his 
fee  rather  than  consent  to  tie  the  fatal  knot." 
All,  it  would  appear,  were  exquisites  who  came 
to  this  tree.  "He  was  but  sixteen,"  says  the 
biographer  of  Roderick  Audrey.  "He  went  very 
decent  to  the  gallows,  being  in  a  white  waistcoat, 
clean  napkin,  white  gloves,  and  an  orange  in  his 
hand." 

The  Beggars  Opera  was  Hazlitt's  favourite 
satire.  Plentiful  references  to  it  abound  through- 
out the  essays,  which  contain  two  full-dress  de- 
scriptions of  the  plot,  and  the  lessons  in  morality 
to  be  drawn  therefrom.  In  both  Hazlitt  stresses 
the  vulgar  error  which  would  call  this  a  vulgar 
play,  and  harks  back  to  that  "happy  alchemy 
of  mind "  which  can  extract  the  essence  of 
140 


A  Vievo  of  The  Beggar^ s  Opera 

reiinement  from  the  dregs  of  life.  He  is  full  of 
the  "justice  to  nature."  It  is  because  America 
has  no  history  that  she  has  never  been  able  to 
appreciate  the  play.  "And  in  America — that 
Van  Diemen's  Land  of  letters  —  this  sterling 
satire  is  hooted  off  the  stage,  because,  fortun- 
ately, they  have  no  such  state  of  manners  as  it 
describes  before  their  eyes  ;  and  because,  unfor- 
tunately, they  have  no  conception  of  anything 
but  what  they  see.  America  is  singularly  and 
awkwardly  situated  in  this  respect.  It  is  a 
new  country  with  an  old  language  ;  and  while 
everything  about  them  is  of  a  day's  growth, 
they  are  constantly  applying  to  us  to  know  what 
to  think  of  it,  and  taking  their  opinions  from  our 
books  and  newspapers  with  a  strange  mixture  of 
servility  and  of  the  spirit  of  contradiction." 

This  was  written  in  1827  and  it  is  curious  that 
when,  in  1921,  in  consequence  of  the  tremendous 
success  of  the  revival  over  here,  the  play  was  once 
more  tried  in  America,  it  was  again  a  dismal 
failure.  The  Yankees  appear  to  have  made  up 
their  minds  on  both  occasions  without  applying 
to  our  books  and  newspapers  to  know  what  to 
think. 

The  vicissitudes  which  Tke  Beggars  Opera  has 
undergone  in  its  own  country  should  explain  the 
lack  of  appreciation  abroad.  Already,  in  1828, 
we  find  the  essayist  deploring  the  degeneracy  of 
the  age.  "It  is  not  that  there  are  not  plenty  of 
rogues  and  pickpockets  at  present ;  but  the  Muse 
is  averse  to  look  that  way  ;  the  imagination  has 

141 


Alarums  and  Excursions 

taken  a  higher  flight ;  wit  aiul  humour  do  not 
flow  in  that  dirty  channel,  picking  the  grains  of 
gold  out  of  it.  Instead  of  descending,  we  aspire  ; 
and  the  age  has  a  sublime  front  given  to  it  to 
contemplate  the  heaven  of  drawing-rooms  and 
the  milky-way  of  passion."  Even  the  players 
had  begun  to  forsake  truth  for  gentility.  The 
Lucy  of  that  year  "  put  a  negative  on  an  encore 
that  was  likely  to  detain  her  five  minutes  longer 
in  Newgate."  Polly  "was  frightened  at  the 
interest  she  might  inspire  and  was  loth  to  waste 
her  sweetness  on  a  blackguard  air."  How  then 
shall  we  account  for  the  enormous  success  of  the 
present  revival  in  an  age  of  fashionable  comedy 
raised  to  the  seventh  heaven  of  inanity  ?  Shall 
I  submit  a  revulsion  from  those  drawing-room 
games  of  Blind  Man's  Buff  or  the  King's  Proctor 
Hoodwinked,  Hunt  the  Slipper,  or  The  Maid's 
Shift  ?  ^  Shall  I  say  that  these  days  of  terrorism 
and  unwritten  laws  are  a  sign  that  we  are  no 
longer  degenerate,  but  reborn  ?  I  am  afraid 
that  neither  plea  will  hold.  The  success  of  The 
Beggar  s  Opera  is,  alas !  not  more  than  a  success 
of  antiquity  ;  it  pleases  like  a  chair  of  some  good 
period  which  it  is  delightful  to  gaze  upon  and  to 
handle,  but  which  one  would  not  dream  of  using. 
The  satire  of  the  past  has  lost  its  sting. 

And  this  brings  me  to  a  very  nice  point. 
What,  exactly,  do  we  expect  in  a  performance  of 
The  Beggars  Opera}     Let  me  pay  all  possible 

*  See    A    Social   Convenience,    The   Fulfilling   of  the   Law,   and    Up   in 
MabePs  Room. 

142 


A  View  of  The  Beggar  s  Opera 

tribute  to  a  production  of  charm,  taste  and 
wit.  The  artists  act  well  enough,  and  sing 
tunably  ;  the  stage-pictures  are  a  delight  to  the 
eye,  the  ground-swell  of  the  musicians  is  a  solace 
to  the  ear.  All  that  can  humanly  be  asked  is 
performed,  and  yet  the  thing  is  not  the  Beggar's 
Opera  of  our  dreams.  This  is  a  matter  worthy 
of  some  discussion,  since  the  whole  function  of 
the  theatre  is  here  called  in  question.  Can  life 
be  put  upon  the  stage  at  all  ?  Was  that  slice 
of  life  which  is  The  Beggar  s  Opera  ever  played 
to  any  perfection  save  in  the  spectator's  brain  ? 
And  is  not  something  more  demanded  from  the 
spectator  than  mere  corroboration,  an  essential 
eking  out  of  the  all  too  insufficient  actor's  art  ? 
It  is  the  case  of  the  blackamoor  in  a  temper  all 
over  again.  The  quintessence  of  the  Moor  is 
not  to  be  acted.  Read  Othello  and  the  map  of 
a  noble  character  is  spread  before  you  like  some 
fair  country,  of  which  jealousy  is  an  accidental 
scarp.  But  in  the  theatre  the  spectator's  nose  is 
to  the  quarry-face  ;  he  too  is  blinded  by  a  single 
passion.  In  the  theatre  you  are  allowed  to  take 
nothing  for  granted  ;  the  sawing  of  the  lip,  the 
frenzied  rolling  of  the  eye  are  "  effects "  to  be 
brought  off  to  satisfy  the  dullards.  So,  too, 
Falstaff's  paunch  may  never  be  taken  for  granted. 
The  actor  must,  at  all  costs,  inflict  upon  you  the 
well-oiled  machinery  of  ventripotence,  whereas, 
to  the  reader,  it  is  his  mind  which  drips  fatness. 
Who  will  say  that  that  stoutish,  middle-aged, 
bald-headed  figure  in   the  limelight,  clad  though 

143 


Alarums  and  Excursions 

he  be  in  brown  surtout  and  imposing  shirt-collar, 
with  a  roll  in  the  voice  and  indescribable,  genteel 
air,  is  really  Micawber  as  we  know  him  who  have 
lived  with  him  ?  These,  the  externals  of  the 
man  which  the  reader  takes  for  granted,  are  on 
the  stage  stressed  beyond  endurance,  lest,  per- 
advcnture,  we  mistake  the  fellow  for  Ally  Sloper. 
Peachum  and  Macheath  are  alike  unactable. 
They  shall  be  pictures  to  fright  and  to  please 
the  eye  of  childhood,  villainy  lined  roughly  and 
gallantry  daubed  after  the  fashion  of  a  Christmas 
Number.  The  fault  is  not  in  the  actors  but  in 
their  art  which,  of  itself,  can  go  only  such  a  little 
way  towards  creation.  In  the  theatre  the  brain 
of  a  spectator  must  prove  the  female  to  the 
actor's  ;  in  no  other  way  can  life  be  begot.  The 
poorest  printed  page  is,  by  itself,  nearer  creation 
than  the  actor's  unaided  flesh  and  blood. 

Apply  this  to  the  work  before  us.  The  Beggar  s 
Opera  was  written  some  twenty  years  before 
Jonathan  Wild,  but  it  is  from  Fielding  that  these 
immortal  rogues  look  out  upon  their  time  and 
upon  us.  Where  Gay  writes  Peachum,  Lockit 
and  Polly  we  must  read  Jonathan,  Blueskin  and 
Laetitia  Snap.  Listen  once  again  to  Fielding's 
description  of  Miss  Tishy  :  "  Her  lovely  hair 
hung  wantonly  over  her  forehead,  being  neither 
white  with,  nor  yet  free  from,  powder ;  a  neat 
double  clout,  which  seemed  to  have  been  worn 
a  few  weeks  only,  was  pinned  under  her  chin  ; 
some  remains  of  that  art  with  which  ladies 
improve  nature,  shone  upon  her  cheeks  ;  her  body 
144 


A  View  of  The  Beggar's  Opera 

was  loosely  attired,  without  stays  or  jumps  ;  so 
that  her  breasts  had  uncontrolled  liberty  to 
display  their  beauteous  orbs,  which  they  did  as 
low  as  her  girdle  ;  a  thin  covering  of  a  rumpled 
muslin  handkerchief  almost  hid  them  from  our 
eyes,  save  in  a  few  parts  where  a  good-natured 
hole  gave  opportunity  to  the  naked  breast  to 
appear.  Her  gown  was  a  satin  of  a  whitish 
colour,  with  about  a  dozen  little  silver  spots  on  it, 
so  artificially  interwoven  at  great  distance,  that 
they  looked  as  if  they  had  fallen  there  by  chance. 
This,  flying  open,  discovered  a  fine  yellow 
petticoat,  beautifully  edged  round  the  bottom 
with  a  narrow  piece  of  half-gold  lace,  which  was 
now  almost  become  fringe ;  beneath  this  ap- 
peared another  petticoat  stiffened  with  whalebone, 
vulgarly  called  a  hoop,  which  hung  six  inches  at 
least  below  the  other ;  and  under  this  again 
appeared  an  under  garment  of  that  colour  which 
Ovid  intends  when  he  says, 

'  Qui  color  albus  erat  nunc  est  contrarius  albo.' 

She  likewise  displayed  two  pretty  feet,  covered 
with  silk  and  adorned  with  lace,  and  tied,  the 
right  with  a  handsome  piece  of  blue  riband  ;  the 
left,  as  more  unworthy,  with  a  piece  of  yellow 
stuff  which  seemed  to  have  been  a  strip  of  her 
upper-petticoat." 

Who,  with  this  picture  in  his  mind,  can  quite 
have  reconciled  himself  to  the  ladies  at  the  Lyric, 
those  immaculate  and  silver  fountains  ?  And 
then   there   is   the   difficulty   of   Polly,   who   was 

K  145 


Alarums  and  Excursions 

played  as  though  she  were  Patience.  Alas  !  that 
we  cannot  know  from  observation  how  Miss 
Stephens  or  Miss  Nash  used  to  play  the  part. 
We  read:  "The  acting  of  Miss  Stephens 
throughout  was  simple,  unaffected  and  graceful 
and  full  of  tenderness.  There  is  a  severity  of 
feeling  and  a  plaintive  sadness,  both  in  the  words 
and  music  of  the  songs  in  this  opera,  on  which 
too  much  stress  cannot  be  laid."  Neither  Miss 
Nelis  nor  Miss  Arkandy  had  tenderness  ;  they 
were  neither  plaintive  nor  sad,  nor  unaffected. 
They  took  refuge  from  anything  resembling 
severity  of  feeling  in  the  highly  artificial,  conscious 
artlessness  of  Gilbert's  milkmaid.  They  were 
china  figures,  and  delectable,  but  unreal. 
Peachum  erred  on  the  side  of  gentility.  He 
should  be  "an  old  rogue."  So  is  not  Mr 
Frederick  Austin.  He  should  have  looked  like 
"  Phiz's"  illustrations,  his  face  all  bubukles  and 
whelks  and  flames  of  fire.  Whereas  there  was 
something  moral  about  Mr  Austin,  something  of 
Matthew  Arnold  in's  aspect,  a  dash  of  the  discon- 
certing debonair,  a  hint  of  Escamillo.  You  could 
not  imagine  him  cutting  up  lives  and  booty.  The 
Mrs  Peachum  of  Miss  Elsie  French  was  excellent 
in  intention,  but  a  trifle  lacking  in  gusto.  Not 
the  cleverest  actress  can,  by  taking  thought,  add 
richness  to  her  personality,  and  I  do  not  think  it 
lay  in  Miss  French's  physical  powers  to  play  the 
part  other  than  as  she  did.  Nevertheless,  Mrs 
Peachum  was  too  shrill  and  shrewish,  too  much 
the  harridan,  the  secret,  black  and  midnight  hag. 
146 


A  View  of  The  Beggar's  Opera 

Chambering  and  strong  waters  called  for  a 
more  generous  habit ;  she  did  not  warm  to  her 
villainies.  Where  there  should  have  been  the 
rump-fed  ronyon  there  was  the  ghoul.  The 
Lucy  of  Miss  Violet  Marquisita  was  an  admirable 
spitfire,  and  Lockit  most  excellently  cut  out  in 
cardboard.  His  hypocrisy  had  just  the  proper 
touch. 

"  'Tis  thus  the  crocodile  his  grief  displays, 
Sheds    the    false    tear,    and,    whilst    he    weeps, 
betrays." 

The  scuffle  between  Peachum  and  Lockit  was 
well  done  and  we  should  not  have  been  surprised 
to  hear  an  old  gentleman  in  the  pit  shout,  as  on 
an  earlier  occasion:  "  Hogarth,  by  God!"  But 
the  performance,  as  any  performance  of  this  opera 
must,  stands  or  falls  by  Macheath.  Upon  this 
part  Hazlitt  expends  all  the  wealth  of  his  discern- 
ment. Macheath,  he  says,  is  not  a  gentleman 
but  a  "fine  gentleman."  His  manners  should 
resemble  those  of  this  kidney  as  closely  as  the 
dresses  of  the  ladies  in  the  private  boxes  resemble 
those  of  the  ladies  in  the  boxes  which  are  not 
private.  He  is  to  be  one  of  God  Almighty's 
gentlemen,  not  a  gentleman  of  the  black  rod. 
"  His  gallantry  and  good  breeding  should  arise 
from  impulse,  not  from  rule ;  not  from  the 
trammels  of  education,  but  from  a  soul  generous, 
courageous,  good-natured,  aspiring,  amorous. 
The  class  of  the  character  is  very  difficult  to  hit. 
It   is   something  between  gusto   and  slang,   like 


Alarums  and  Excursions 

port  wine  and  brandy  mixed.  It  is  not  the  mere 
gentleman  that  should  be  represented  but  the 
blackguard  sublimated  into  the  gentleman." 
Hazlitt  could  find  no  one  on  the  stage  of  his 
day  to  play  the  part  as  he  conceived  it.  The 
elder  Kemble  might  have  done,  but  he  was  no 
singer.  Mr  Kean  might  have  made  the  experi- 
ment, but  he  would  not  have  succeeded.  Incledon 
was  not  sufficient  of  a  gentleman,  Davies  did  not 
sing  well  enough,  Sinclair  was  too  finical,  Cooke 
without  title  for  the  part. 

Mr  Frederick  Ranalow,  then,  had  in  Macheath 
a  sufficiently  challenging  part  from  the  point 
of  view  of  tradition.  We  may  say  at  once  that 
he  was  good-looking,  gallant,  debonair,  vocal. 
Perhaps  he  was  a  trifle  over-wigged,  which 
makes  Macheath  something  less  than  the  "pretty 
fellow"  of  Madame  Vestris.  Whilst  his  gentility 
was  exactly  right — and  we  can  imagine  the  page 
of  purple  our  essayist  would  have  given  to  the 
nicety  of  his  hitting-off — we  did  not  quite  believe 
in  his  scoundrelism.  He  was  the  sentimental 
philanderer  of  our  own  day,  and  not  the  trusser 
of  women.  This  small  discrepancy  apart,  Mr 
Ranalow  was  admirable.  No  praise  could  have 
been  too  high  for  the  perfection  of  his  diction, 
the  wit  of  his  Before  the  Barn-Door  Crowing,  the 
pathos  of  The  Charge  is  Prepared,  the  finesse  of 
How  Happy  could  I  be  with  Either.  He  is  a 
most  accomplished  singer,  and  an  actor  to  his 
finger-tips.  Still,  the  only  part  in  the  present 
production  which  I  take  to  be  entirely  in  accord- 
148 


A  View  of  The  Beggar's  Opera 

ance  with  the  old  spirit  is  Filch.  Filch  is  a 
serious,  contemplative,  conscientious  character. 
He  is  to  sing  'Tis  Woman  that  seduces  all 
Mankind,  as  if  he  had  a  pretty  girl  in  one  eye 
and  the  gallows  in  the  other.  The  actor  is  not 
to  make  a  joke  of  the  part.  By  being  sober, 
honest  and  industrious  he  hopes  to  escape  Tyburn 
by  way  of  Transportation.  The  Filch  of  Mr 
Frederick  Davies  was  exactly  in  this  key.  His 
gesture  at  the  words  "  Pox  take  the  Tailors  for 
making  the  Fobs  so  deep  and  narrow  was  the 
one  canaillerie  in  the  play.  Here  we  come 
again  at  our  point.  The  characters  in  the  Opera 
are  to  have  but  a  superficial  air  of  gallantry  and 
romance  ;  there  should  be  something  hang-dog 
about  them.  All  the  gallants  in  the  revival  could 
ogle  a  wench  ;  not  one  of  them  save  Filch  had 
the  gallows  in  his  composition.  The  shadow  of 
the  gibbet  was  not  here  ;  you  would  have  un- 
hesitatinglyinvited  them  to  sup  at  your  own  house. 
Even  the  women  of  the  town  were,  you  feel,  only 
pretending.  An  old  French  critic  singled  out 
among  the  many  excellencies  of  the  comedy, 
"the  differentiation  the  author  makes  between 
the  jades,  how  each  has  her  separate  character, 
her  peculiar  traits,  her  peculiar  modes  of  expres- 
sion, which  give  her  a  marked  distinction  from 
her  companions."  Whereas  each  of  the  hussies 
personified  at  the  Lyric  was  qualified  to  mate 
with  an  earl.  There  was  nothing  of  a  dis- 
tinguishing tawdriness  about  them  except  their 
styles  and  titles. 

149 


Alarums  and  Excursions 

Gay  seems  to  have  glossed  over  the  real 
nature  of  the  intrigue.  It  was,  doubtless,  always 
a  delicate  thing  to  suggest  to  English  ears,  even  in 
the  eighteenth  century,  that  Peachum^rre  et  mere 
have  a  vested  interest  in  Polly's  wantonness,  and 
a  legitimate  grievance  in  her  revolt  in  favour  of 
a  single  lover.  "  Look  ye,  Wife,"  says  Peachum, 
"  a  handsome  Wench  in  our  way  of  Business  is  as 
profitable  as  at  the  Bar  of  a  Temple  Coffee- House, 
who  looks  upon  it  as  her  livelihood  to  grant  every 
Liberty  but  one."  Fielding  was  less  squeamish, 
and  so  too  are  our  neighbours.  Compare  that 
moral  tract  of  Villiers  de  I'lsle  Adam,  Le^ 
Demoiselles  de  Bienfddtre,  written  some  forty 
years  ago.  The  story  might  with  equal  justice 
have  been  called  Peachum  Philosophe  or  Peachum 
Chez  Nous. 

These  ladies  were  "deux  de  ces  ouvrieres  qui 
vont  en  journ^e  la  nuit."  Their  trade  of  plea- 
sure was  ungrateful,  often  laborious.  But  they 
respected  the  Sabbath,  were  economical,  and 
maintained  their  parents.  Elles  tenaient  le  haul 
du  pav^.  None  better  walked  the  streets.  And 
then  the  younger  sister,  Olympe,  made  a  slip. 
She  fell  in  love  with  a  poor  student.  One  day 
the  elder  sister,  Henriette,  who  had  now  to  bear 
the  burden  of  the  family  alone,  met  Olympe  in 
the  street,  dressed  simply,  without  a  hat,  and 
carrying  a  little  jug  in  her  hand.  Henriette 
pretended  not  to  know  her,  whispering  as  she 
passed  :  "  Your  conduct  is  unpardonable.  You 
might  at  least  respect  appearances !  " 
150 


A  View  of  The  Beggar's  Opera 

Olympe  blushed  and  passed  on.  Bienfilatre 
made  one  attempt  to  rescue  his  daughter.  He 
climbed  the  stairs  of  the  student's  poor  lodging. 

"Give  me  back  my  child,"  he  sobbed. 

"  I  love  her,"  replied  the  student,  "and  I  will 
marry  her." 

"  Wretch,'  replied  Bienfilatre,  turning  away 
revolted  by  such  cynicism. 

Soon  after,  Henriette  meets  her  shameless 
sister  in  a  caf^,  and  harangrues  her  before  the  cus- 
tomers  assembled  over  their  little  glasses.  "  Is 
there  not  such  a  thing  as  duty  to  one's  family } 
...  A  ne'er-do-well  without  a  sou.  .  .  .  Social 
ostracism.  .  .  .  No  sense  of  responsibility.  .  .  . 
We  are  not  brought  into  this  world  for 
pleasure.   .   .   ." 

Olympe  takes  to  her  bed  and  dies,  literally  of 
shame.  To  the  priest  she  murmurs  :  "  J'ai  eu  un 
amant !  Pour  le  plaisir  !  Sans  rien  gagner  !  " 
The  lover  appearing,  Olympe  repulses  him  with 
a  gesture  of  horror.  Then,  as  the  dying  girl 
perceives  the  glint  of  gold  pieces  in  the  student's 
hand,  actually  the  examination  fees  which  he  has 
received  from  his  parents  and  now  hurries  to 
pour  into  her  lap,  her  face  takes  on  a  look  of 
ecstasy  which  the  priest  mistakes  for  a  proof  of 
the  redemption  to  come.  Murmuring  :  "  He  has 
repented.  God  has  given  him  light,"  the  girl 
expires. 

But  perhaps  it  is  Polly's  innocence  which  has 
kept  The  Beggar  s  Opera  sweet.  It  may  be  that 
it   is  easier  to    keep  that  quality    fragrant    than 


Alarums  and  Excursions 

to  ensure  that  wit  shall  remain  astringent  and 
aseptic.  And  so  we  come  back  to  the  milkmaid 
at  the  end.  The  manners  of  the  eighteenth 
century  are  no  longer ;  to  contemplate  those 
times  too  seriously  is  to  risk  giving  them  coun- 
tenance ;  it  were  safer,  perhaps,  to  take  the  story 
with  an  air  of  its  being  too  preposterous  to  be 
true.  It  is  not,  however,  to  be  thought  that 
Hazlitt  saw  the  play  so,  nor  that  Fielding  is  to 
be  read  in  that  light.  We  come  back  to  the 
original  statement  that  here  is  the  most  delightful 
entertainment  on  the  stage  to-day,  provided 
always  that  the  mind  is  granted  full  liberty  to 
bring  to  it  what  it  likes. 


152 


An  Evening  at  Collinses 

Vulgarity  is  an  implicit  element  of  the  true  music-hall.  .  .  .  Out 
of  the  vulgarity  of  the  people  did  the  music-hall  arise,  nor  will 
anyone  be  so  foolish  as  to  contend  that,  by  tampering  with  its 
foundations,  we  shall  go  one  step  towards  refining  the  people. 

Max  Beerbohm. 

THAT  delicate  and  penetrative  writer, 
Dixon  Scott,  imagines  in  one  of  his 
playful  essays  the  more  than  cosmopolitan 
Mr  Walkley  for  the  nonce  desorienU.  The  Five 
Towns  it  is  which  bring  to  a  disconcerting  stand- 
still this  "picked  man  of  countries."  "Where 
are  they  ?  "  he  asks  wearily  and  a  trifle  shame- 
facedly, after  the  manner  of  a  schoolboy  stumped 
for  the  whereabouts  of  Carthage.  I,  in  my  turn, 
no  "  student  of  the  drama  "  since  there  is  little 
on  the  English  stage  left  to  study  save  Mr  Oscar 
Asche's  sham  orientalism  and  Mr  Hichens's  real 
camels,  must  confess  to  a  singular  ignorance  of 
theatrical  activity  outside  the  quarter-mile  radius. 
"  Where  is  Collins's  .'*  "  and  "  Who  is  Mr  George 
Carney  ? "  would  therefore  have  risen  naturally 
to  my  lips,  and  not  at  all  in  the  judicial  manner, 
pour  rire,  when  a  youth,  engaged  in  mending 
my  bicycle,  hopelessly  confused  his  tale  of  the 
machine's  defects  with  references  to  a  place 
called  Collins's,  that  fellow  Carney,  and  a  certain 
history  confided  by  some  colonel  to  his  adjutant. 
Would  have  risen  to  my  lips,  I  say — but  here 
some  explanation  is  necessary. 

I  have  from  youth  up  cherished  an  extreme 
dislike  for  lack  of  definition  in  the  things  that 
matter,  and  an  equal  repugnance  for  a  pedantic 
accuracy  in   the  things  which   do   not  matter  at 

153 


Alarums  and  Excursions 

all,  I  abhor  all  those  befogged  conceptions  and 
blurred  declarations  of  faith  which  are  the  stock- 
in-trade  of  half  the  philosophers  and  three-fourths 
of  the  clergy.  Tell  me  definitely  that  Space  is 
curved  and  I  will  believe  it,  though  truth  wear 
a  German  complexion.  Deny  that  Space  is 
curved,  and  certify  the  same  on  the  Royal 
Society's  proper  form  for  denials,  and  I  will 
consider  to  which  camp  I  will  belong.  But  let 
there  be  no  "  iffing  and  affing,"  as  they  say  in 
Lancashire.  It  annoys  me  that  people  can  turn 
the  careless  side  of  their  intelligence  to  such 
fundamental  affairs  as  Time  and  Space,  the 
nature  of  matter,  the  impasse  of  a  self-existent 
or  a  created  universe,  whilst  taking  the  most 
passionate  interest  in  such  trivia  as  dates  and 
places,  the  addresses  of  tradespeople  and  the 
hours  of  trains.  1  do  not  ever  hope  to  re- 
member the  name  or  number  of  the  street  in 
which  I  live,  nor  have  I  for  years  been  able  to 
discriminate  between  the  keepers  of  my  lodging- 
houses.  All  landladies  are  one,  co-equal,  co- 
eternal  and  co-incomprehensible.  I  hate  to 
decide  what  I  shall  do  on  Saturday,  to  determine 
whether  the  air  will  be  fresher  at  Ramsgate  or 
Marorate,  Southend  or  Clacton-on-Sea.  I  am 
in  complete  ignorance  of  the  geography  of 
London,  and  invariably  take  what  is  called  a 
hackney  coach  from  King's  Cross  to  St  Pancras. 
I  have  for  many  years  left  the  choice  of  place 
of  amusement  to  the  discerning  cabby.  "  Any- 
where   you    like,"    say     I,    "except    Chu    Chin 

154 


An  Evening  at  Collinses 

Chow.  Wherever  one  may  be  set  down,  the 
prime  condition  of  life  will  be  fulfilled — to  see 
yet  more  of  an  amusing  world  and  its  humanity. 
Few  people  have  shown  a  more  philosophic 
appreciation  than  Bernard  Clark  and  Ethel 
Monticue  when  they  "  oozed  forth "  into  the 
streets.  The  phrase  accurately  describes  my 
first  attempt  to  find  Collins's  music-hall. 

I  had  always  "placed"  Collins's  as  lying 
vaguely  south  of  the  river,  somewhere  between 
the  Elephant  and  the  Obelisk,  Now  the  game 
of  inattention  to  the  trivialities  of  life  has  its 
rules,  and  one  of  them  is  that  having  made  your 
intellectual  bed  so  you  must  lie  on  it.  You  are 
to  have  the  courage  of  your  lack  of  mental 
industry.  You  have  not  attended  to  the  lesson  ; 
you  may  not  crib  the  answer.  To  dine  at 
Princes'  and  bid  the  commissionaire  whistle  an 
instructed  taxi  were  outside  the  code.  No ;  I 
had  placed  Collins's  near  the  Obelisk,  and  near 
the  Obelisk  I  must  find  it,  first  dining  befittingly 
and  then  oozing  forth  afoot.  This  may  not  be 
the  place  to  describe  a  dinner  "at  the  Obelisk." 
Sufficient  to  say  that  if  the  cuts  were  not  prime, 
the  manners  of  my  fellow-guests  undoubtedly 
were.  They  did  their  meal  the  courtesy  of 
being  hungry  ;  they  ate,  but  not  because  it  was 
the  polite  hour.  They  made  no  conversation, 
because  they  were  not  afraid  of  silence.  My 
neighbour,  an  itinerant  musician  —  in  plain 
English  he  played  a  fiddle  in  the  gutter — was, 
I    judged,    a    man    of   uncertain    character,    but 


Alarums  and  Excursions 

definite  education.  He  forbore  to  relate  his 
history.  I  discovered  that  he  spoke  French 
perfectly  when,  apropos  of  the  oeillades  of  some 
poor  drai4'^le-tail  at  a  neiohbouring-  table,  we  fell 
to  discussing  the  efficacy  of  the  Duchess's 
revenge  in  Barbey  d'Aurevilly's  story — a  good 
tale,  but  sadly  lacking  the  American  quality  of 
"uplift."  I  let  slip,  as  they  say,  that  I  was 
bound  for  Collins's,  and  my  friend  took  occasion 
to  point  out  that  I  was  very  much  out  of  my 
course.  I  thanked  him  and  listened  to  his  in- 
dications for  the  following  evening,  it  being  a 
dispensation  of  the  Inattentivists  that  you  are 
not  bound  to  reject  information  thrust  upon  you. 
We  talked  until  the  hour  at  which  a  paternal 
Government  decrees  that  polite  conversation  in 
public  places  shall  cease.  And  separated.  But 
not  before  my  fellow-artist  had  warmed  sufficiently 
to  me  to  hint  that  he  was  "doing  well,"  and  that 
he  hoped  next  year  to  enter  his  son  for  Eton. 

Islington  I  found  to  be  perfectly  well  informed 
both  as  to  the  locality  of  Collins's  and  the  reputa- 
tion of  Mr  Carney.  If  not  within  a  stone's-throw 
of  the  Angel,  the  hall  yet  contrives  to  be  at  so 
nice  a  distance  that  one  may  transfer  oneself  from 
one  house  of  entertainment  to  the  other  without, 
as  old  Quex  has  it,  the  trouble  of  drawing  on 
one's  gloves.  There  is  nothing  of  listless,  well- 
bred  indifference  in  a  visit  to  Collins's  ;  you  must 
be  prepared  to  take  the  red  plush  benches  by 
storm  if  you  would  be  in  at  North  London's  tak- 
ing to  heart  of  that  rarity  among  comedians,  an 
156 


An  Evening  at  Collins' s 

actor  with  a  comic  sense.  I  like  to  watch  the 
curtain  go  up,  having  first  enjoyed  my  fill  of  its 
bewitching  advertisements.  I  like  to  watch  the 
musicians  file  in,  to  see  the  flute-player  put  his 
instrument  together,  and  that  honest  workman, 
the  double-bass,  spit  on  his  hands,  as  all  honest 
workmen  should.  I  adore  the  operation  of 
tuning-up,  the  precision  of  those  little  runs  and 
trills  executed  in  as  perfect  light-heartedness  as 
the  golfer's  preliminary  swing.  The  conductor 
at  these  places  is  a  captivating  personage ; 
he  epitomises  the  glory  of  suburbia — dinner 
jacket,  "  dickey,"  and  white,  ready-made  bow. 
The  overture  at  Collins's,  perfunctory,  gladia- 
torial, had  a  familiar  air  about  it,  although  the 
programme  was  not  helpful.  I  should  hate  to 
think  that  a  piece  with  which  I  am  familiar 
can  really  be  The  Woodbine  Willie  Two-Step. 
Followed  turns  of  which,  or  of  whom,  the  chief 
were  a  juggler  striking  matches  on  his  skull, 
a  stout  lady  with  a  thin  voice,  prima  donna  of 
some  undisclosed  opera  company,  and  a  Versatile 
Comedy  Four  having  to  do  with  bicycles.  At 
length  and  at  last,  Mr  George  Carney. 

The  first  of  his  two  "  song-scenas  "  is  a  study 
of  grandeur  and  decadence,  of  magnificence  on 
its  last  legs,  dandyism  in  the  gutter,  pride  surviv- 
ing its  fall  ;  in  plain  English,  a  tale  of  that 
wreckage  of  the  Embankment  which  was  once  a 
gentleman.  He  wears  a  morning  coat  which,  in 
spite  of  irremediable  tatters,  has  obviously  known 
the  sunshine  of  Piccadilly,  has  yet  some  hang  of 

157 


Alarums  and  Excursions 

nobility.  The  torn  trousers  still  wear  their 
plaid  with  an  air.  Enfin,  the  fellow  was  at  one 
time  gloved  and  booted.  There  is  something 
authentic,  something  inherited,  something  ghostly 
about  this  seedy  figure.  Trailing  clouds  of  glory 
does  he  haunt  the  Embankment.  The  ebony 
cane,  the  eyeglass  with  the  watered  ribbon,  the 
grey  topper  of  the  wide  and  curling  brim — all 
these  fond  accoutrements  of  fashion  bring  back 
the  delightful  nineties,  so  closely  are  they  the 
presentment,  the  counterfeit  presentment,  of  the 
swell  of  those  days.  "  Bancroft  to  the  life!  "  we 
mutter.  And  our  mind  goes  back  to  that  bygone 
London  of  violet  nights  and  softly-jingling  han- 
som cabs,  discreet  lacquer  and  harness  of  cheer- 
ful brass — nocturnes,  if  ever  such  things  were,  in 
black  and  gold — the  London  of  yellow  asters  and 
green  carnations  ;  of  a  long-gloved  diseuse,  and, 
in  the  photographer's  window,  a  delicious  Mrs 
Patrick  Campbell  eating  something  dreadfully 
expensive  off  the  same  plate  as  Mr  George 
Alexander  ;  of  a  hard-working  Max  with  one 
volume  of  stern  achievement  and  all  Time  before 
him  ;  of  a  Cafe  Royal  where  poets  and  not  yet 
bookmakers  forgathered  ;  of  a  score  of  music- 
halls  which  were  not  for  the  young  person.  .  .  . 
But  I  am  getting  away  from  Mr  Carney. 

The  matter  is  not  very  much  above  our  heads 
— somethingr  about  a  Count  who  has  "  taken  the 
count."  The  purest  stuff  of  the  music-hall,  as  a 
music-hall  song-  should  be.  "  There's  a  n'ole 
'ere !  "   pipes  with   fierce  glee   the  cherub  boot- 


An  Evening  at  Collinses 

black,  bending  over  the  broken  boots  and  abat- 
ing the  deference  to  the  broken  swell  no  jot  of 
his  Trade  Union  rate  of  "frippence."  How  it 
hurts,  the  contempt  and  raillery  of  this  pitiless 
infant  ?  Enfant  goguenard  if  ever  there  was  one, 
a  capitalist  in  his  small  way,  and  with  all  the 
shopkeeper's  scorn  of  failure.  "  There's  a  n'ole 
'ere !  "  he  insists,  and  we  are  reminded  of  Kipps's 
tempestuous  friend,  "a  nactor-fellow."  "Not  a 
n'ole — an  aperture,  my  dear  fellow,  an  aperture," 
corrects  the  noble  client,  "the  boots  were  patent, 
but  the  patent's  expired,"  Here  the  Count  drops 
his  cigar  and  indulges  in  unseemly  scuffle  with 
the  urchin.  "  No,  you  don't,"  says  the  riper 
smoker,  regaining  possession,  "that's  how  /got 
it."  But  the  child  has  yet  another  arrow. 
"  Landlady  says  as  'ow  you've  got  to  share  beds 
wiv  a  dustman."  But  the  shaft  fails  to  wound  ; 
clearly  our  hero  is  of  the  Clincham  mould  to 
whom  social  distinctions  are  as  "piffle  before  the 
wind."  "Want  a  pyper?"  goads  the  boy,  and 
his  client  lays  out  his  last  remaining  copper. 
He  unfolds  the  sheets  and  instinctively  his  eye 
runs  over  the  fashionable  intellioence.  "  Know 
Colonel  Br'th'l'pp  at  all } "  he  inquires.  This 
one  recognises  as  the  delightful  touch  of  the 
man  of  the  world  anxious  to  put  a  social  inferior 
at  his  ease.  Something  after  this  manner,  one 
imagines.  Royalty.  "  Doing  very  well  in  Russia. 
Was  up  at  Cambridge  with  his  brother,  the  elder 
Br'th'l'pp,  don'  cher  know."  And  so  to  babble 
of  the  day's  gossip  to  the  scornful  child  at  his 

159 


Alarums  and  Excursions 

feet.  The  courtesy,  I  submit,  of  one  man  of 
polish  to  another. 

Night  falls,  the  river  puts  on  its  jewels,  the 
result  of  a  cunning'  arrangement  of  n'oles  and 
n'apertures  in  the  back-cloth,  it  draws  very  cold. 
More  pitiful  than  the  accustomed  heir  of  destitu- 
tion, but  with  stiff  upper  lip,  our  declassd  shivers, 
draws  his  rags  more  closely  about  him  and 
moves  on. 

But  it  is  the  second  song  which  brings  down 
the  house.  Here  the  actor  appears  as  an  Army 
cook,  and  at  Islington  we  have  all  been  Army 
cooks  in  our  time.  A  couple  of  dixies,  the  stew 
in  which  is  discoverable  last  week's  "  Dickey 
Dirt,"  talk  of  "  jippo  "  and  "  the  doings  " — all  the 
familiar  traffic  of  the  camp  rises  to  the  mind's  eye 
and  sets  the  house  in  a  roar.  We  are  not,  we 
gather,  in  any  theatre  of  war,  but  safely  at  home 
in  halcyon,  far-off  training  days.  Almost  you 
can  hear  the  cheerful  clatter  of  the  canteen, 
the  thud  and  rattle  of  the  horse-lines.  The 
wording  of  the  song  is  in  no  sense  precious. 

"  What  was  the  tale  the  Colonel  told  the  Adjutant, 
What  did  the  AdjtUant  say  to  Major  Brown  ?  " 

There  is  a  chorus,  also  serving  as  corps  de  hallet, 
and  consisting  first  of  the  inveterate  grumbler 
who  objects  to  the  presence  in  his  coffee  of  so 
harmless  a  beastie  as  a  "drahned  mahse  " — the 
accent  is  a  mixture  of  Devon  and  Berkshire  with 
a  dash  of  Cockney.  Then  comes  the  superior 
youth  of  ingratiating,  behind-the-counter  manner, 
i6o 


An  Evening  at  Collinses 

the  proud  possessor,  we  feel  sure,  of  a  manicure 
set  in  ivory — does  he  not  abstractedly  polish  his 
nails  with  the  end  of  the  towel  ?  After  him  the 
*'  old  sweat "  who  will  neither  die  nor  fade  away, 
and  lastly  our  rosy  boot-black,  now  the  dear 
brother-in-arms  of  the  immortal  Lew  and  Jakin. 
This  nucleus  of  an  Army  has  but  a  single  mind  : 
to  know  what  has  become  of  its  blinking  dinner. 
Many  and  various  are  their  ways  of  putting  it, 
and  it  appears  that  they  are  no  more  than 
Messengers  or  Forerunners  of  the  cohorts  press- 
ing on  their  heels.  But  the  orderly  beguiles  their 
impatience. 

"  What  did  the  Major  whisper  to  the  Captain? 
The  Captain  told  the  Subs  to  hand  it  down." 

The  orderly  is  the  slipshod,  inefficient,  im- 
perturbable "bloke  "  we  know  so  well  ;  with  him 
we  are  to  rise  to  what  Mr  Chesterton  calls  "  the 
dazzling  pinnacle  of  the  commonplace."  I  am 
not  sure  that  this  is  not  the  best  of  all  this 
author's  fireworks  ;  it  is  so  stupendous  a  rocket 
that  the  stick  has  cleared  the  earth,  never  to 
return  but  to  go  on  whirling  around  us  for  ever- 
more. Mr  Carney  is  the  embodiment  of  the 
commonplace  civilian  turned  warrior.  He  is  the 
cook  who  will  drop  into  the  stew  all  manner  of 
inconsidered  trifles  :  cigarette  ash,  match  ends, 
articles  of  personal  attire.  He  is  the  hero  who 
will  be  up  to  all  the  petty  knavery  and  "lead- 
swinging"  that  may  be  going,  who  will  "work 
dodges  "  with  the  worst  of  them,  and,  on  occasion, 
L  i6i 


Alarums  and  Excursions 

join  with  the  best  in  such  deeds — he  would  still 
call  them  "dodges" — as  shall  put  terror  into  the 
hearts  of  a  ten  times  outnumbering  foe.  Of  that 
order  of  heroic  cooks  which  held  Ypres.  But  it 
is  part  and  parcel  of  this  actor's  generalship  that 
he  will  have  no  truck  with  heroics.  Tell  Mr 
Carney  that  he  raises  tears  and  he  will  make  a 
mock  of  you.  Or  more  probably  he  will  con- 
tinue his  song. 

"  What  did  the  Quarter -mastcY  tell  the  Sergeant? 

The  Sergeant  told  the  CorpWil,  it  appears ; 

The  CorpWil  told  the  Private  and  the  Private  told 

his  girl, 
Now  shes  loo  king  for  Mademoiselle  from  Armen- 

teers." 

Have  I  over-glorified  my  subject,  whose  talent 
is  not  more  remarkably  expended  than  on  a  dixie 
and  a  soldier's  ration  of  stew  ?  Ah,  but  was  not 
always  one  of  the  great  tests  for  comic  acting  the 
power  to  throw  a  preternatural  interest  over  the 
commonest  objects  of  daily  life?  "What,"  say 
you,  pricking  your  ears  at  the  familiar  phrase, 
"  surely  at  this  time  of  day  you  are  not  going 
to  dish  up  that  old  stuff  about  kitchen  tables 
and  constellatory  importance,  joint-stools  and 
Cassiopeia's  chair.-*"  Oh,  but  I  am,  and  let 
appositeness  be  my  apology.  "  So  the  gusto  of 
Munden  antiquates  and  ennobles  what  it  touches. 
His  pots  and  his  ladles  are  as  grand  and  primal 
as  the  seething-pots  and  hooks  seen  in  old 
prophetic  vision."  Why  should  I  not  elevate,  an 
162 


An  Evening  at  Collinses 

it  please  me,  Mr  Carney's  pot  and  ladle  to  the 
same  high  category  ?  I  do  not  ask  you  to  see 
in  this  actor  an  image  of  primeval  man  lost  in 
wonder  of  the  sun  and  stars,  but  I  do  ask  you 
to  believe  that  a  tin  of  "bully"  contemplated 
by  him  amounts,  or  very  nearly  amounts,  to  a 
Platonic  idea.  Grant  at  least  that  he  understands 
a  dixie  in  its  quiddity.  It  may  be  that  in  my 
estimate  of  this  conscientious  comedian  I  have 
overshot  the  just  mean.  Well,  granting  that  my 
little  appraisement  is  an  error,  it  seems  to  me  to 
be  an  error  on  the  right  side.  I  have  a  comfort- 
able feeling  that  Islington  at  least  is  with  me,  that 
I  have  a  solid  popular  backing.  Collins's  pit  and 
stalls,  circle  and  gallery  would  have  borne  me 
out  that  the  actor  diffused  a  glow  of  sentiment 
"  which  made  the  pulse  of  a  crowded  theatre  beat 
like  that  of  one  man  " ;  would  have  probably  agreed 
that  he  had  "  come  in  aid  of  the  pulpit,  doing  good 
to  the  moral  heart  of  a  people." 

I  do  not  think  that  in  expanding  Islington's 
approval  I  have  misread  it.  Its  ecstatic  hand- 
clapping  and  shouts  of  "Good  ole  George! 
Good  ole  George  !  "  cannot  deceive  an  ear  attuned 
to  shades  of  applause.  The  civilian  on  my  left 
with  the  wound-stripes  on  his  sleeve  is  dumb  with 
appreciation.  His  lips  are  parted,  his  breath 
comes  in  short  gasps,  his  eyes  are  fixed  on 
the  stage  seeing  and  not  seeing,  his  whole 
soul  in  some  setting  of  the  past.  I  am  sure  he 
hears  once  more  the  clatter  of  the  canteen  and 
the    cheerful    rattle    of    the    horse-lines.      The 

163 


Alarums  and  Excursions 

soldier  on  my  right,  still  in  the  Army's  grip  and 
not  yet  victim  of  the  nostalgia  to  come — a  very 
small  fiy  in  demobilisation's  ointment,  but  there 
it  is — is  drunk,  simply,  uncomplicatedly  drunk, 
with  the  lilt  and  swing  of  the  tune.  He  rises 
half  out  of  his  seat,  puts  a  steadying  hand  on 
my  arm,  and  with  the  other  wildly  conducts  the 
house  now  singing  in  chorus  : 

"  What  was  the  tale  the  Colonel  told  the  Adjutant? 
What  did  the  Adjutant  say  to  Major  Brown? 
What  did  the  Major  whisper  to  the  Captain  ? 
The  Captain  told  the  Subs  to  hand  it  down. 
What  did  the  Qitarter -master  tell  the  Sergeant  ? 
The  Sergeant  told  the  CorpWil,  it  appears, 
The  Corp'ril  told  the  Private  and  the  Private  told 

his  girl, 
Now  shes  looking  for  Mademoiselle  from  Armen- 

teers." 

There  is  a  limit  to  the  number  of  recalls 
even  the  most  grateful  servant  of  the  public  may 
permit  himself,  and  at  last  Mr  Carney  is  allowed 
to  retire  in  favour  of  the  next  turn.  But  my 
friend  on  the  right  takes  some  little  time  to 
simmer  down.  "  Good  ole  George  !  "  he  con- 
tinues to  mutter  under  his  breath.  "Oh,  good 
ole  George !  "  And  as  the  tumblers  who  come 
next  are  a  dull  pair,  I  wend  my  way  out. 


164 


Incidental  Music  and  Some 
Shakespeare 

OF  all  the  actors,  scene  -  painters  and 
musicians  who  were  to  breathe  life  into 
the  revival  of  The  Tempest  at  the 
Aldwych  Theatre  only  Mr  Arthur  Bliss  achieved 
any  measure  of  success.  When  he  was  silent 
Shakespeare  was  silent  too.  There  was  also 
Sullivan  to  babble  of  magic  islands,  but  a'  babbled 
after  the  wrong  fashion.  Still,  it  is  time  the 
Muse  was  put  in  her  place.  Eminent  concert 
critics  have  flattered  that  young  lady  till  she  is 
now  out  of  hand.  "The  theatrical  shows  are 
sad  experiences  for  the  musicians,"  writes  Mr 
Ernest  Newman.  "  I  rarely  go  to  the  legitimate 
theatre.  A  serious  play,  even  if  it  is  a  work  of 
genius,  merely  echoes  what  is  said  so  much  more 
tellingly  in  the  music  of  the  great  masters." 
Stuff  and  nonsense !  Lord  Burleigh's  nod  were 
then  as  nothing  compared  with  this  cyclopaedic 
bowing  and  scraping.  A  theme  for  oboe,  double- 
bass  and  triangle  is  no  longer  a  pleasing  con- 
catenation but  a  full  statement  of,  say,  Racine's 
version  of  an  ^schylean  tragedy.  Strike  C  five 
times  running  and  you  are  to  suppose  Andro- 
maque,  C  sharp  and  you  get  Pyrrhus,  F  and  you 
are  sure  of  Hermione.  Orestes,  that  wild  beast 
of  the  compassionate  entrails  whose  name  I  will 
not  F"renchify,  alone  remains. 

"  So  add  B  flat  for  tiger's  chaudron 
And  Orestes  pops  up  in  cauldron." 

165 


Alarums  and  Excursions 

Bandy  the  phrase  about  a  little,  make  the  gruel 
thick  and  slab,  and  there  is  no  longer  need  of 
Racine  to  tell  us  all  about  it/ 

Now  this  won't  do.  Music  may  be  the  sublim- 
est  of  the  arts,  but  it  is  also  the  least  complicated. 
It  makes  up  for  being  the  least  intellectual  by 
being  the  most  purely  emotional.  It  is  the  only 
art  which  appeals  to  the  brute  creation.  No 
dog,  however  intelligent,  reads  Mr  Max  Beer- 
bohm  ;  no  horse,  however  tyroical,  appreciates 
Mr  Wyndham  Lewis.  Orpheus  may  have  had 
his  way  with  trees,  mountain  tops  that  freeze, 
plants,  flowers,  the  billows  of  the  sea  ;  but  we 
are  not  told  of  his  success  with  pit  and  stalls. 
Music  may  be  elemental  as  sun  and  wind,  but 
that  does  not  mean  that  it  is  to  ride  rough-shod 
over  us  in  our  playhouses,  the  most  rigorous 
excluders,  Heaven  knows,  of  daylight  and  fresh 
air.  The  French,  rightly,  have  banished  music 
from  their  theatres.  But  then  they  are  jealous 
for  their  actors  and  they  know  the  truth  of  the 
matter.  They  know  that,  with  certain  reserva- 
tions, critics  like  Mr  Ernest  Newman  are  right, 
and  that  music,  which  is  merely  in  the  way  when 
the  play  and  the  acting  are  good,  may  be  the  one 
thing  that  will   save  bad  acting  and  bad  plays. 

'  It  is  conceivable  that  music  might  be  of  use  in  "recommending"  a 
snippet,  in  giving  a  "reference"  as  to  character.  In  the  fifth  act  of 
Andromaque,  which  we  have  recently  seen  dragged  raw  and  bleeding 
from  its  context,  Ilermione  has  all  her  work  cut  out  to  imply  in  a  single 
gesture  that  she  is  annoyed  with  her  betrothed  for  slaying  at  her  instiga- 
tion the  man  with  whom  she  is  really  in  love,  just  because  he  has  black- 
mailed another  woman  into  marrying  him.  CVj/  trop,  and  an  elucidatory 
blast  frnm  one  of  Mr  Newman's  trombones  might  help. 

1 66 


Music  and  Some  Shakespeare 

In  Shakespearean  tragedy  music  is  to  be  abhorred ; 
in  the  purely  human  comedies  it  is  an  unmitigated 
nuisance  ;  in  the  masques  and  fairy  plays  it  has 
a  certain  salvage  value. 

The  Tempest  on  the  stage  stands  badly  in  need 
of  salvaging,  I  have  never  been  able  to  take  a 
liking  to  it  as  a  stage-play,  although  painfully 
conscious  that  the  big  guns  are  against  me.  Sir 
Arthur  Quiller-Couch  has  decided  that  he  would 
rather  have  written  The  Tempest  than  Othello, 
Hamlet  or  Lear.  "  For  I  can  just  imagine  a 
future  age  of  men,  in  which  their  characterisation 
has  passed  into  a  curiosity,  a  pale  thing  of  anti- 
quity ;  as  I  can  barely  imagine,  yet  can  just  im- 
agine, a  world  in  which  the  murder  of  Desdemona, 
the  fate  of  Cordelia,  will  be  considered  curiously, 
as  brute  happenings  proper  to  a  time  outlived  ; 
and  again,  while  I  reverence  the  artist  who  in 
Othello  or  Lear  purges  our  passion,  forcing  us  to 
weep  for  present  human  woe.  The  Tempest,  as  I 
see  it,  forces  diviner  tears,  tears  for  sheer  beauty  ; 
with  a  royal  sense  of  this  world  and  how  it  passes 
away,  with  a  catch  at  the  heart  of  what  is  to 
come.  And  still  the  sense  is  royal  ;  it  is  the 
majesty  of  art :  we  feel  that  we  are  greater  than 
we  know.  So  on  the  surge  of  our  emotion,  as 
on  the  surges  ringing  Prospero's  island,  is  blown 
a  spray,  a  mist.  Actually  it  dwells  in  our 
eyes,  bedimming  them,  and  as  involuntarily  we 
would  brush  it  away,  there  rides  in  it  a  rain- 
bow, and  its  colours  are  wisdom  and  charity, 
with    forgiveness,    tender    ruth   for  all  men    and 

167 


Alarums  and  Excursions 

women  growing  older,  and  perennial  trust  in 
young  love." 

Sir  Arthur  Ouiller-Couch  is  a  critic  worthy  of 
respect.  The  passage  is  a  beautiful  one,  but  I 
cannot  help  thinking  that  it  was  wrought  and 
hammered  in  the  study  and  not  jotted  down  on  a 
theatre  programme  between  the  acts  of  the  play. 

In  the  theatre  Prospero  is  the  difficulty  ;  there 
is  nothinor  to  be  done  with  him.  Never  were 
there  such  dramatic  longtieurs  as  those  unending 
speeches.  Realising  that  Prospero  is  not  an 
amusing  conversationalist,  his  creator  constantly 
nudges  the  audience.  "  Dost  thou  attend  me?" 
"Thou  attend'st  not."  "Dost  thou  hear  me  ?  " 
"  I  pray  thee,  mark  me."  There  is  no  human 
interest  in  this  wind-bag. 

The  normal  method  of  playing  Prospero  as  a 
compound  of  Good  King  Wenceslas  and  Father 
Christmas  is  failure  in  advance.  Neither  of 
these  old  fogeys  may  say  with  conviction : 

"  I  have  bedimmed 
The    noontide    sun,    called    forth    the    mutinous 

winds, 
And  'twixt  the  green  sea  and  the  azured  vault 
Set  roaring  war :  to  the  dread  rattling  thunder 
Have  I  given  fire,  and  rifled  Jove's  stout  oak 
With  his  own  bolt ;  the  strong-based  promontory 
Have  I  made  shake,  and  by  the  spurs  plucked  up 
The  pine  and  cedar :  graves  at  my  command 
Have  waked  their  sleepers,  oped,  and  let  'em  forth 
By  my  so  potent  art." 
i68 


Music  and  Some  Shakespeare 

Prospero  should  be  august,  terrible,  not  quite 
of  this  world.  He  is  of  the  cellarage,  an  old 
mole  come  to  the  upper  world,  uncanny,  a  sight 
to  awe.  Irving  could  never  have  delivered 
himself  of  the  verse,  but  his  incantations  had  not 
been  without  potency.  You  would  have  been 
terrified  by  the  spirits  of  his  beck  and  call.  Mr 
Ainley  was  irresistible  in  the  wrong  way.  He 
endowed  Prospero  with  charm.  His  womanish, 
clean-shaven  countenance,  his  carefully  silvered, 
Whistlerian  lock  of  hair,  the  purple  mantle  at 
which  he  perpetually  hitched  and  thrutched  as 
though  it  had  not  been  the  garment  of  twenty 
years'  custom,  the  perfunctory  wavings  of  a 
wand  in  which  there  was  neither  magic  nor 
terror — the  whole  aspect  of  Prospero  was  that 
of  a  masculine  fairy  queen.  A  great  critic, 
writing  of  a  player  of  another  day,  said  :  '*  His 
Prospero  was  good  for  nothing  ;  and,  consequently, 
was  indescribably  bad.  It  was  grave  without 
solemnity,  stately  without  dignity,  pompous  with- 
out being  impressive,  and  totally  destitute  of  the 
wild,  mysterious,  preternatural  character  of  the 
original.  Prospero,  as  depicted  by  Mr  Young, 
did  not  appear  the  potent  wizard  brooding  in 
gloomy  abstraction  over  the  secrets  of  his  art,  and 
around  whom  spirits  and  airy  shapes  throng- 
numberless  '  at  his  bidding' ;  but  seemed  himself 
an  automaton,  stupidly  prompted  by  others  :  his 
lips  moved  up  and  down  as  if  pulled  by  wires, 
not  governed  by  the  deep  and  varied  impulses  of 
passion."     So  Mr  Ainley. 

169 


Alarums  and  Excursions 

Caliban  may  be  played  simply  as  a  monster, 
grotesque  and  terrible,  or  he  may  be  humanised 
into  a  thing  of  pity.  The  power  and  truth  of 
Mr  Louis  Calvert's  performance  seemed  to  be 
contained  solely  in  the  character's  legs,  stuccoed, 
like  one  of  Mr  E.T.  Reed's  monsters,  with  jags 
and  tufts  of  hair.  These  were  the  only  grotesque 
feature  of  the  performance.  For  the  rest,  the 
actor  went  down  on  his  knees  like  paterfamilias 
on  the  hearthrug  playing  at  bear.  Never  can 
there  have  been  such  a  miscasting  as  Miss 
Winifred  Barnes.  Nothing,  one  felt,  was  going  to 
suit  this  chubby  little  sister  of  Ariel's  less  than 
a  return  to  the  raw,  unsophisticated  elements. 
She  sang  the  songs  fairly  well.  "We  do  not, 
however,  wish  to  hear  them  sung,  though  never 
so  well  ;  no  music  can  add  anything  to  their 
magical  effect. — The  words  of  Shakespeare  would 
be  sweet,  even  '  after  the  songs  of  Apollo  ! '  "  I 
ask  those  Shakespearean  producers  who  will 
inflict  music  upon  us  to  note  that  these  words' are 
not  mine. 

The  incidental  music  to  Henry  IV.,  Part  II., 
at  the  Court  Theatre  was  perfection.  There 
wasn't  any!  But  Henry  IV.  is  an  acting  play 
and  can  stand  alone.  This  simple  unpretentious 
production,  although  not  amazingly  well  acted, 
was  yet  full  of  quiet  satisfaction.  Mr  Fagan  tidied 
up  the  sprawling  play  into  three  exquisite  parcels, 
the  first  containing  all  that  is  richest  in  Falstaff, 
the  second  disposing  to  kingly  seriousness,  the 
third  a  burst  of  sunshine  in  a  Gloucestershire 
170 


Music  and  Some  Shakespeare 

garden  three  hundred  years  ago.  It  was  wonder- 
fully mellow  and  full  of  the  orchard-sense  of  the 
ripest  of  all  comedies.  Mr  Frank  Cellier's  King 
was  in  exactly  the  right  key.  It  had  not  too 
much  bodily  majesty  which,  indeed,  should  not 
be  asked.  What  sick  and  dying  man  may  keep 
more  than  the  frailest  hold  upon  the  slipping 
robe  of  kingship.-*  Mr  Basil  Rathbone's  Prince 
achieved  a  certain  height  of  moral  grandeur  free 
from  priggishness,  but  for  me  a  Harry  of  long 
ago  bars  the  way  to  any  later  appreciation. 
I  refer  to  the  unforgettable  performance  of  Mr 
Courtenay  Thorpe  in  the  nineties.  Laurence 
Irving  was  the  Justice  Shallow  in  those  days, 
and  again  I  could  not  see  Mr  H.  O.  Nicholson's 
clever  performance  with  unclouded  eyes.  As 
usual  the  part  of  Feeble  was  entirely  miscon- 
ceived. To  this  steely  soul  in  woman's  body 
is  given  the  most  valiant  of  Shakespeare's  utter- 
ances upon  death  :  "  By  my  troth,  I  care  not ; 
a  man  can  die  but  once  :  we  owe  God  a  death  : 
I'll  ne'er  bear  a  base  mind  :  An't  be  my  destiny, 
so  ;  An't  be  not,  so  :  no  man's  too  good  to  serve's 
prince  ;  and  let  it  go  which  way  it  will,  he  that 
dies  this  year  is  quit  for  the  next."  Now,  either 
Shakespeare  did  not  mean  Feeble  to  be  an  utter 
fool  or  he  momentarily  ignored  him  and  filled  him 
up  out  of  the  superfluity  of  his  own  passion.  It 
is  a  risky  thing  to  say  that  an  actor  misconceives 
his  part.  I  remember  that  a  suggestion  of  mine 
that  a  young  man  of  breeding  could  quarrel  with 
his    mother    and    achieve    impertinence    without 

171 


Alarums  and  Excursions 

putting  his  feet  up  on  the  sofa  drew  down  upon 
me  from  the  actor  the  very  succinct  rebuke : 
"Critical  sir,  quite  so.  But  have  you  never 
heard  of  the  producer?''  But  this  is  by 
the  way. 

Henry  IV.  can  never  be  more  than  a  casket 
enshrining  Falstaff.  Here  is  a  problem  to  con 
front  the  actor.  In  that  saddest  of  all  comic 
passages  :  "  And  is  old  Double  dead  !  "  the  barren 
emptiness  of  life  is  made  bare  ;  in  every  line 
of  Falstaff  there  is  life  everlasting.  Only  it  is  life 
upon  this  earth,  the  life  of  the  gross  body  and 
also  of  the  wit  nimble,  apprehensive,  fiery,  quick 
and  delectable.  One  half  of  Falstaff  is  meaning- 
less without  its  complement ;  the  actor  shall  give 
you  the  tidy  little  Bartholomew  boar-pig,  the 
glutton,  the  foiner,  the  opportunist ;  but  he  shall 
also  insist  upon  the  greatheart  and  the  fallen 
Knight.  Do  players  study  their  parts  beyond 
conning  them  by  rote  ?  Does  Othello  spend  day 
and  night  bethinking  him  into  that  savage  skin, 
or  does  he  rely  for  shadowed  livery  solely  upon 
his  box  of  paints  ?  Does  Falstaff  take  counsel 
beyond  his  own  cogitations  ?  I  should  like  to 
think  that  every  player  of  Sir  John  has  taken  to 
heart  not  only  the  lines  of  his  part  but  every  line 
of  another  famous  passage.  "  He  manures  and 
nourishes  his  mind  with  jests,  as  he  does  his  body 
with  sack  and  sugar.  He  carves  out  his  jokes, 
as  he  would  a  capon  or  a  haunch  of  venison, 
where  there  is  cut  and  come  again ;  and  pours 
out  upon  them  the  oil  of  gladness.  His  tongue 
172 


Music  and  Some  Shakespeare 

drops  fatness,  and  in  the  chambers  of  his  brain  it 
snows  of  meat  and  drink." 

Mr  Alfred  Clark's  Falstaff  was  a  replica  of 
small  size.  He  had  not  the  intellectual  thews 
and  stature,  the  antique  villainy,  the  sly  licorous- 
ness.  Corruption  in  him  hardly  raised  its  head, 
nor  were  the  humours  of  the  authentic  dropsical. 
A  chuckle  displaced  the  giant  roar  ;  the  light  of 
jocularity  would  twinkle  in  his  eye  but  fail  to 
come  to  birth,  unthinkable  miscarriage  in  that 
master  of  fecundity  as  of  all  other  human  attri- 
butes. He  did  not  dominate  Pistol  in  the  brawl. 
But  Bardolph's  "  Sir  "  was  a  tribute  to  the  gentle- 
man, and  this  side  of  him  the  actor  conveyed 
admirably.  He  kept  FalstafTs  fallen  day  about 
him.  Yet  to  him  Doll  had  never  opened  out 
with  her  fine  "  Come  on,  you  whoreson  chops." 
Nor  could  this  pleasant  country  squire  have 
compassed  the  gross  pleasantry  of  his  entree 
en  mature :  "  Sirrah,  you  giant,  what  says  the 
doctor,"  etc.  Nor  yet  declare  :  "  I  do  here  walk 
before  thee  like  a  sow  that  hath  overwhelmed 
all  her  litter  but  one."  Falstaff,  with  his  wide- 
awake brain,  was  alive  to  the  hoggish  possibility. 
No  degeneration  there !  A  captain  of  rare  parts 
in  command  of  an  unruly  body  of  members.  A 
better  man  than  the  Prince.  He  warmed  both 
hands  before  the  fire  of  life,  and  none  has  ever 
been  ready  that  the  old  fellow  should  depart. 


173 


Vesta  Ave  Atque  Vale 

There's  a  tune  in  my  head  to-night, 

As  I  walk,  as  I  talk, 
And  it  swoons  in  a  whirl  of  light 

(While  the  day  fades  away) 
And  I  hear  my  heart  as  it  beats 

A  refrain,  and  again 
I  am  splashed  by  the  mud  of  the  streets, 

And  again  feel  the  rain. 

Arthur  Symons. 

IT  could  be  wished  that  poets  and  philosophers 
were  not  such  cozeners.  To  make  the  best 
of  a  bad  business  is  a  form  of  worldly  wisdom, 
a  policy  and  no  more.  But  where  the  business 
is  so  bad  that  no  amelioration  is  possible,  your 
poet  and  philosopher  will  have  it  that  it  cannot 
be  such  a  bad  business  after  all.  Necessary  evil, 
be  thou  my  good  !  they  cry.  But  like  the  essayist 
who  was  honest  with  himself,  I  take  death  to  be 
the  capital  plague-sore.  Like  him  I  can  in  no 
way  be  brought  to  digest  that  "  thin,  melancholy 
Privation.''  Yet  those  others  will  tell  us  that 
since  no  man  has  aught  of  what  he  leaves,  'tis 
naught  to  leave  betimes  ;  that  he  must  be  very 
impatient,  who  would  repine  at  death  in  the 
society  of  all  things  that  suffer  under  it ;  that  no 
man  can  be  living  for  ever,  and  we  must  be 
satisfied.  Well,  I  am  not  satisfied  and  there's  an 
end  of  it.  One  of  the  great  dissatisfactions  of 
my  life  is  the  retirement  of  actors.  Partir,  cest 
mourir  un  peu.  To  say  good-bye  is  to  die 
a  little.  To  bid  farewell  to  the  stage  is  to  de- 
part wholly ;  these  ceremonious  leave-takings 
are  only  one  degree  less  chillsome  than  the 
last  adjurations.  I  dislike  all  partings,  adieux, 
174 


Vesta  Ave  Atque  Vale 

valedictories.  I  hate  to  pray  for  Buckingham, 
and  have  a  distaste  for  the  slow  decline.  I  would 
leave  ships  to  sink  and  dying  men  to  die  ;  the 
pity's  too  abominable.  I  would  pretend  that  age 
and  death  are  not,  and  on  the  stage  that  players 
remain  what  they  have  always  been.  Let  the 
retired  actor  live  in  our  memories  if  it  be  of 
comfort  to  him  ;  'tis  none  to  us.  To  comfort  me 
must  Ellen  T y  be  a  goblin  ? 

Actors  should  die  in  harness.  I  open  my  paper 
o'  mornings  and,  turning  first  to  the  column  of 
theatrical  advertisements,  still  look  to  see  Olivia, 
Miss  Ellen  Terry  ;  Susan  Hartley,  Mrs  Kendal ; 
Quex,  Sir  John  Hare ;  Old  Songs  and  New 
Favourites,  Miss  Vesta  Tilley.  It  is  with  this 
little  lady  that  I  am  concerned  here.  I  will  not 
say  that  appreciation  in  volume  of  applause  has 
not  been  deep  enough.  Palms  may  wear  out 
with  clapping,  voices  hoarsen  through  cheering, 
curtains  part  again  and  again  to  give  yet  one 
more  glimpse  of  that  trim,  taut  little  figure  with 
the  boyish  hair,  boyish  manner  and  proud,  boyish 
smile — and  yet  leave  something  unexpressed. 

I  remember  as  though  it  were  not  more  than  a 
year  ago  the  first  time  I  saw  Vesta  Tilley.  It 
was  my  first  pantomine,  and  I  recall  to  this  day 
her  clearness  of  enunciation  and  tiny  modicum  of 
voice.  In  recollection  I  breathe  again  the  "tart 
ozone  "  of  her  distinction.  She  was  not  content 
with  being  just  Aladdin  or  Dick,  Sinbad,  Robinson 
or  Prince  Charming.  She  was  the  "masher" 
of  those  days,  and  how  long  ago  those  days  are 

175 


Alarums  and  Excursions 

you  best  can  tell  by  entering  the  snuggery  of 
some  theatrical  house  of  entertainment  and  exam- 
ining the  faded  photographs  on  the  wall.  There 
you  will  find  beauty  long  since  faded  with  the 
rose — simpering,  wistful  memories.  Belle  Bilton 
and  May  Yohe,  Letty  Lind,  Harriet  Vernon, 
Lottie  Collins,  Maggie  Duggan.  Among  these 
melancholy  pictures  you  will  of  a  surety  espy  one 
of  a  trim  little  figure  in  a  dress-coat  curiously 
rounded  and  curved,  with  what  is  obviously  a  red 
silk  handkerchief — the  note  of  the  period — in  the 
shirt-front.  Other  images  there  will  be  of  that 
long  succession  of  "Midnight  Sons,"  "Piccadilly 
Johnnies,"  "  Burlington  Berties,"  heady  youths 
all,  with  an  amazing  selection  of  waistcoats, 
gloves,  ties  and  canes.  They  are  the  embodi- 
ment of  the  bucks  the  most  modest  of  us  in  our 
hearts  knew  ourselves  in  those  far-away  days 
to  be.  Burton  may  talk  contemptuously  of  the 
transmogrification  of  the  toga'd  citizen  into  terms 
of  boiled  shirt,  dove-tailed  coat,  black-cloth 
clothes,  white  pocket-handkerchief  and  diamond 
ring.  Vesta  Tilley  has  always  known  better 
than  to  be  contemptuous  of  clothes.  Her  waist- 
coats have  had  both  a  devastating  and  a  moral 
effect  upon  the  young  man.  Her  visits  to  pro- 
vincial towns  were  occasions  for  extravagant 
launchings-out  on  the  part  of  the  "cards"  into 
suits  of  clothes  they  could  ill  afford  ;  but  never, 
on  the  other  hand,  did  these  visits  fail  to  lead  to 
a  more  regular  pressing  under  the  mattress  of 
workaday  trousers.  To  what  vain  comparisons, 
176 


Vesta  Ave  Atque  Vale 

to  what  futile  emulations  did  we  not  surrender 
ourselves  ?  But  the  influence  was  all  to  the  good. 
You  have  only  to  read  Mr  Arnold  Bennett  to 
realise  that  well-creased  trousers,  even  if  a  trifle 
worn,  have  more  influence  on  a  young  man's 
career  than  a  verbatim  knowledge  of  the  poets. 
And  didn't  hearts  beat  soundly  beneath  the 
creases?  Weren't  the  hearts  of  the  gay  and 
giddy  young  "clurks,"  as  Miss  Tilley  has  always 
called  them,  in  the  right  place  in  their  bodies  if 
not  in  my  prose  ?  Didn't  they  volunteer  for 
the  South  African  War?  Not  'arf!  Welcome^ 
welcome,  C.I.V.'s.  And  has  she  not  cheered  in 
greater  circumstance  the  children  of  those  earlier 
heroes  ?  Of  all  the  songs.  Jolly  Good  Luck  to 
the  Girl  Who  Loves  a  Soldier  was  perhaps  the 
best.  It  had  the  most  heart  in  it.  It  showed 
the  "rookie"  puffing  behind  his  big  cigar,  his 
heart  swelling  with  pride  and  just  a  little  too  full 
for  words.  The  suspicion  of  a  tear  brushed  away 
upon  the  pipeclayed  cuff,  one  more  roll  and  lick 
of  the  cigar,  one  more  tug  at  the  belt,  and  with 
swagger-stick  under  arm  the  boy  would  march 
away,  the  heir  to  all  our  military  glory. 

"  Dost  thou  think,  though  I  am  caparisoned 
like  a  man,  I  have  a  doublet  and  hose  in  my  dis- 
position ?  "  Yes,  we  do  think  this.  Vesta  Tilley 
was  ever  a  boy  whom  nothing  could  unman. 
Master  of  her  characters,  she  was  mistress  of 
herself.  Was  there  ever  such  triumphant  storm- 
ing of  an  audience,  such  dignified  acceptance  of 
their  fealty?  Has  ever  actor  since  Irving  so 
M  177 


Alarums  and  Excursions 

proudly  proclaimed  himself  the  public's  "loving, 
ijrateful  and  obedient  servant "  ? 

Recently,  in  an  old  lumber-room,  I  came  across 
a  fretwork  frame,  made  in  the  days  when  boys  did 
that  sort  of  thing,  containing  five  photographs  of 
Vesta  Tilley.  Two  of  them  were  illustrative  of 
Happy  Hampton  and  the  Sad  Sea  Waves,  the 
others  showed  a  recruit,  a  Piccadilly  Johnny,  and 
an  amazing  young  gentleman,  presently  to  enlist 
in  the  C. I.V.'s,  and  now  clad  in  a  waistcoat 
quartered  into  the  emblems  of  England,  Scotland, 
Ireland  and  Wales,  and  having  at  the  end  of  his 
gold-mounted  cane  the  flag  of  Empire.  Is  the 
lumber-room  a  fitting  shrine?  Nennil  Not  in 
that  sad  repository  but  in  the  storehouse  of  the 
mind  shall  she  be  preserved.  But  it  will  take  more 
than  Shakespeare,  Synge  or  Sir  Thomas  Browne, 
with  whose  trite  philosophies  I  began,  to  persuade 
me  that  she  should  have  departed  at  all.  It  may 
be  true  that  no  one  can  be  acting  for  ever.  I  am 
not  satisfied. 


178 


Charlie  Chaplin'^ 

Hey,  but  he's  doleful  ! 
Patience. 

IF  you  did  not  reflect  you  might  say  that 
Covent  Garden,  when  it  opened  its  arms  to 
CharHe  Chaplin,  underwent  "a  reverse." 
The  haunt  of  beaux  quizzing  a  Bride  of 
Lammermoor  virginal  at  fifty  summers,  of  belles 
deliciously  pdmdes  before  some  Italian  Puss-in- 
Boots  masquerading  as  Edgardo — surely  the 
old  Opera  House  suffered  a  "come-down  "  when 
for  these  sublimities  were  substituted  a  pair  of 
middling  boxers  and  their  attendant  "fans." 
And  now  must  the  great  building  bemean  itself 
still  further,  and  drink  of  the  very  dregs  of  dis- 
grace, the  silent  buffoonery  of  the  billycock  and 
cane.  The  last  indignity  this  ;  more,  you  might 
plead,  than  these  old  bricks  and  mortar  should 
be  asked  to  endure.  I  do  not  ag^ree.  I  am  to 
comfort  the  old  house,  to  bid  it  take  heart  again. 
I  declare  with  the  utmost  seriousness  that  in  the 
thumpings  of  Messrs  Beckett  and  McCormick 
I  find  a  deeper  note  of  conviction  than  ever  I 
do  in  the  roulades  of  be-wigged  and  be-ringleted 
puppets.  I  declare  that  in  the  acting  of  this 
film-comedian  I  find  sincerity  great  as  any 
bruiser's,  and  a  mastery  of  tragi-comedy  unknown 
to  the  operatic  stage.  (I  except  the  Russians, 
who  have  nothing  to  do  with  the  Garden.) 
Almost  am  I  persuaded  to  divert  the  trickle  of 
my  theme,   which    is    Charlie    Chaplin,  into   the 

'  This  chapter,  and  tlie  four  which  succeed  it,  appeared  originally  in 
'llie  Saturday  Review.,  and  are  reprinted  by  the  kind  permission  of  the 
Editor  of  that  paper. 

179 


Alarums  and  Excursions 

more  general  stream  of  "The  Opera  Revisited" 
or  "  Grandeur  and  Decadence  Reversed."  The 
title,  **  Sed  Revocare  Gradum,"  were  nicely  to 
hand.  What  jollier  than  a  hymn  to  the  ridicu- 
lous turned  sublime?  Charlie  is  my  more 
immediate  darling,  however,  and  I  will  stick  to 
my  text. 

Charlie    Chaplin    sublime.?       This    is    some 
writer's    trick,   say    you,    some    literary    flourish. 
I   lay  my  hand  on   my   heart  and  swear  that   it 
is  not,  that  there  is,  at  least  for  me,  more  emotion 
in    a   single    tear   of    The   Kid  than   in   all    the 
bucketfuls    of   "  Vesti   la   giubba."     "But,"    you 
reply,  "what  nonsense  have  we  here?     All  the 
world  knows   that   Charlie  Chaplin   is  a  clown." 
But  just  as  there   is  laughter  and  laughter,  so 
there  are  clowns  and  clowns.     Here  let  me  pro- 
mise that  I  have  no  intention   of  following   the 
comic  spirit  into  Meredithian  or  Bergsonian  fast- 
nesses.     I  know  a  funny  fellow  without  the  help 
of  your  greybeards.     A  funny  fellow  is  he  who 
makes  me  laugh,  willy-nilly,  without  discoverable 
reason.      So    that  great    moon-calf,   Grock.      So 
Mr    Fred    Kitchen.     So   any   of  your   essential 
drolls.      But   not  so   Charlie.     At    him    I    laugh 
for    reasons    which    I    know   instinctively    to    be 
eminently   discoverable.      The    first   glimpse    of 
that    little   shuffling   gnome  sets  all   my   critical 
faculties  stirring  ;    I   want   to  probe  and  dissect, 
to  analyse,  to  trace  that  humour  to   the  source 
I  know  it  must  ultimately  reveal.     I  am  on  my 
critical  guard.     Whereas  the  other  side   to  the 
i8o 


Charlie  Chaplin 

actor's  genius,  his  immense  and  confounding 
pathos,  finds  me  utterly  defenceless.  Let  that 
lip  droop  for  an  instant  and  the  Nile  is  here.  I 
care  not  whence  it  comes. 

Place  must  be  found  for  a  short  dissertation 
upon  the  sense  of  humour,  lest  I  be  deemed  as 
bereft  thereof  as  was  Eliza's  husband.  For  I  do 
not  look  to  join  the  agelastic  choir — Mr  Dombey 
and  the  author  of  the  Hymn  of  Hate,  Mrs 
Humphry  Ward,  Mr  Drinkwater's  Abraham 
Lincoln — who  had  surely  by  our  little  clown 
been  unamused.  I  doubt  whether  Charlie  had 
been  commanded  to  Victorian  Windsor;  Mr 
Gladstone  had  certainly  turned  him  into  a 
sermon.  Humour  is  a  kittle  thing.  Let  me, 
when  I  would  laugh  royally,  have  comedians 
about  me  that  are  fat.  I  am  for  Falstaff  and 
Bully  Bottom,  Micawber  and  Herbert  Campbell. 
I  leave  to  more  reflective  mood  those  brain- 
teasers,  Malvolio  and  Jingle,  Smike^  and  Mr 
Alfred  Lester.  I  adore  the  rotundity  of  Potash 
but  cope  less  easily  with  Perlmutter.  I  worship 
the  little  butter-pat  which  is  Jeff;  Mutt  is  apt 
to  become  an  intellectual  strain.  I  repeat  that 
when  I  hold  my  sides,  I  do  not  want  to  know 
why.  There  is,  alas !  a  kind  of  fellow,  much 
about  these  days,  who  insists  upon  always 
knowing  why,  and  in  his  nosings  leads  our 
wittiest  by  that  organ.  Mr  Walkley  is  the  latest 
sufferer    from    what    I    will    call    Crocitis,    with 

1  Strictly  speaking,  Smike  is  perhaps  more  a  tragic  than  a  comic  creation. 
I  leave  him  here,  however,  as  he  seems  to  me  to  be  at  least  as  funny  as 
Mr  Lester. 

i8i 


Alarums  and  Excursions 

Bergsonian  relapses.  Does  he  not  tell  us  that 
Mr  Robey,  as  a  Venetian  minstrel  with  a  stuffed 
monkey  pinned  to  his  coat-tails,  exemplifies  the 
dictum  that  the  secret  of  the  comic  is  "  something 
mechanical  encrusted  upon  the  living"?  The 
solemn  figure  of  Professor  Bergson  must  here 
have  come  between  Mr  Walkley  and  the  stage, 
else  had  he  told  us  that  in  this  scene  Mr  Robey 
was  less  funny  than  in  the  others.  And  now  1 
suppose  I  shall  be  told  that  the  famous  boots  and 
trousers  are  mechanical  encrustations  upon  the 
living  Charlie  Chaplin.  Rubbish  !  To  the  clear- 
sighted they  are  barnacles,  retardative  of  a 
swifter  wit.  The  secret  of  this  clowning  is  that 
it  is  ever  so  much  more  than  trouser-deep.  I 
do  not  laugh  when  my  intellectual  interests  are 
aroused.  I  do  not  laugh  when  Pecuchet  ridicu- 
lously rushes  to  Bouvard  in  his  Government 
office  to  announce  on  the  first  day  of  spring, 
"J'ai  ot6  ma  flanelle !  "  I  hardly  laugh  when, 
in  the  French  play,  the  retired  grocer,  whose 
daughter  is  to  marry  a  lawyer,  erects  in  his  back- 
garden  a  statue  to  Cicero  for  the  purpose  of 
hurling  at  it  the  apostrophe  :  "  Ciceron,  tu  ne 
vaux  pas  mon  gendre ! "  I  do  not  laugh  at 
Charlie  till  I  cry.  I  laugh  lest  I  cry,  which  is 
a  very  different  matter.  And,  therefore,  I  bid 
Covent  Garden  lift  up  its  heart  and  say  with  me  : 
"  Caruso,  tu  ne  vaux  pas  mon  Chariot !  " 

It  is  not  denied  that  there  is  a  natural  fun 
about  our  hero  which  is  not  subject  to  reason  ; 
that  his  moustache,  like  the  eyebrows  of  Mr 
182 


Charlie  Chaplin 

Robey  or  the  headgear  of  Mr  Churchill, 
approaches  the  border-line  which  divides  the 
higher  genius  of  man  from  the  lesser  works  of 
God.  There  is  in  his  transmutation  of  bedspread 
into  dressing-gown  a  comicality  which  is  one 
with  the  comic  spirit  and  indivisible.  Since  both 
are  invested  with  "  constellatory  importance," 
kinship  is  attained  with  the  laughter  of  the 
spheres.  The  more  I  cast  about  for  the  why 
and  wherefore  of  this  absolute  thing,  this  humour 
which  is  a  part  of  Original  Creation,  lent  to 
Charlie  at  birth,  now  worn  by  him  as  a  mantle, 
the  more  I  am  teased  out  of  thought.  I  am 
content  to  hold  my  unthinking  sides.  There  are 
aspects,  however,  about  which  we  may  legiti- 
mately reason.  There  is  the  quality  of  logic. 
In  Shoulder  Arms  the  duckings  in  the  flooded 
dug-out  are  not  simply  lunatic.  The  fellow  puts 
his  head  under  water  because  the  pillow  upon 
which  he  would  lay  it  is  submerged.  He  would 
blow  out  his  candle,  afloat  on  the  water  and 
unmoored,  and  his  pufls  direct  it  whither  we 
have  all  along  foreseen  it  must  go,  under  the 
toes  of  the  neiohbour  bed-fellow.  In  another 
film  you  see  him  with  a  mongrel  endeavouring 
to  enter  a  drinking-saloon  where  dogs  are  not 
admitted.  Charlie  is  in  no  way  nonplussed ; 
he  envelops  the  tyke  in  his  expansive  trousers. 
But  the  tail  emerging  through  a  preposterous 
hole,  and  its  owner's  owner  taking  his  drink 
cheek  by  jowl  with  the  big  drum  of  the  saloon- 
orchestra,  heaven  and  earth,  and  more  particu- 

183 


Alarums  and  Excursions 

larly  earth,  are  disastrously  aroused  with  resonant 
and  persistent  thump.  Euclidean,  this.  Even 
more  important  is  the  close-doubled  relation 
between  humour  and  pathos.  Forlornly  this 
desolate  soldier  nibbles  the  cheese  out  of  the 
mouse-trap  because,  of  all  the  company,  he  alone 
has  received  no  parcel  from  home.  Jealously 
he  reads  over  the  shoulders  of  his  companions 
the  letters  which  he  alone  has  been  denied. 
His  interest  in  their  contents  is  personal,  and 
the  poignancy  of  that  wry  smile  and  the  child- 
like eyes  welling  with  a  child's  disappointment 
is  such  as  the  articulate  comedian,  with  all  his 
mumblings  and  mouthings,  had  hardly  achieved. 
When,  sharing  his  "kip"  with  the  Kid,  he  rolls 
over  and  takes  with  him  all  the  covering,  he 
does  but  intensify  the  care  with  which  he  had 
tucked  the  little  mite  in.  In  the  agony  of  his 
search  for  the  little  fellow  he  must  needs  look 
between  mattress  and  bed-board.  Charlie  cannot 
embark  upon  high  endeavour  without  grotesque 
misadventure  :  in  gallant  rescue  he  will  descend 
a  chimney,  only  to  burn  his  buttocks.  But  it  is 
equally  true  that  the  most  grotesque  of  his 
hazards  is  fraught  with  moral  significance.  Even 
in  the  ridiculous  fight  with  the  giant  bully  we 
feel  that  just  as  Mr  Polly  screwed  himself  up  to 
the  prospect  of  self-immolation,  so,  at  a  pinch, 
will  Charlie  face  and  fight  and  dare  if  his 
mother-wit  fail  to  shuffle  him  a  way  round  ;  that, 
all  alternatives  lacking,  he  will  go  through  hell 
for  the  Kid.  And  it  is  convenient  for  the 
184 


Charlie  Chaplin 

cinema-goer  that  hell  is  so  easily  translatable 
into  scrambles  over  perilous  roofs. 

As  for  the  child-actor  who  plays  the  Kid,  I 
am  in  a  quandary.  Let  precocity  appear  upon  the 
stage  and  I  am  resolutely  distrait.  All  juvenile 
prodigies,  from  the  tiny  ball  of  humanity  tossed 
up  on  the  feet  of  the  Japanese  tumbler  down  to 
Jackie  Coogan,  seem  to  me  so  many  pathetic 
little  monstrosities.  They  make  me  uncomfort- 
able, shaming  my  elder  wit.  Master  Coogan  is 
the  one  actor  about  whom  I  am  unable  to  make 
up  my  mind.  I  am  in  no  doubt  as  to  the  effect 
which  he  produces  ;  the  difficulty  is  in  the  nature 
and  source  of  his  emotion.  What  reserves  of 
feeling,  must  we  suppose,  lie  behind  those  floods 
of  tears  of  which  he  makes  such  infinitely  pathetic 
show  ?     The  orreatest  actor  in  the  world  had  not 

o 

done  more  realistically.  Are  we  to  presume 
that  at  the  tender  age  of  six  Master  Coogan 
knows  his  Diderot,  and  feels  nothing?  Or  that 
his  emotion  is  real?  If  the  latter,  then  there 
are  depths  in  this  small  soul  which  frighten  me. 
I  fear  lest,  like  Marjorie  Fleming,  the  childish 
body  prove  too  frail  for  so  mature  a  spirit. 

I  know  nothing  of  the  soul  of  the  elder  actor. 
I  do  know  that  his  most  warped  and  twisted 
caricatures  still  retain  some  soul  of  humanity. 
Let  me  reproduce  an  incident  which  exactly 
illustrates  what  I  have  always  felt  about  Chaplin. 
The  scene  was  a  Lancashire  town,  the  characters 
a  mob  of  rough  youths  joking  and  larking.  They 
blocked    the    pavement.     One    saw    approaching 

185 


Alarums  and  Excursions 

a  stunted,  misshapen  figure  of  deformity.     With 
dread   one   waited    for    the  jeers   with    which    it 
seemed  the  hunchback  must  be  received.     Sud- 
denly a  youth  cried  out:    "Hey,   up;   a  chap!" 
and  the  cripple  was  given  silent  and  respectful 
passage.     Charlie,    despite    his    oddities,    is    still 
"a    chap."      He    belongs    to    humanity  and   will 
one    day,    like     Lincoln,    belong    to    the    ages. 
To-day  he   is    one    of   us.      His   queer   sorrows, 
his   queerer   scrapes    might    well    be    ours.      To 
meet  his  woes  he  arms  his  wistful  soul,  even  as 
we  do.     He  is  too   small    for    big    battles ;   the 
toga  virilis  sits  not  well  upon  him.      Indeed,  it 
is  not  assumed.     For  when,  at  the  end  of  the 
play,  the   Kid  is  received   into   sheltering  arms, 
and  Charlie  is  received  too,  we  know  which  of 
the  twain  stands  in  the  greater  need  of  succour. 
The  Kid  is  the  best  film  Chaplin  has  made,  and 
it  looks  as  though   he  may  be  on  the  point  of 
realising  which  way  his  finer  genius  lies.      Happy 
the  artist  who,  with  his  buffoonery  and  his  pot- 
boiling  days  behind  him,  is  at  liberty  to  give  us 
the  best  of  his  art.      I   know  that  many   people 
look  upon  Charlie  Chaplin  as  a  figure  frolicsome 
and    free.     "Hey,   but    he's   doleful!"  seems   to 
me  the  more  fitting  note,  and  the  one  the  artist 
will  probably  strike  in  the  future.      I  see  him  at 
this  juncture  as  Sir  Joshua  saw  Garrick  :  a  figure 
torn   between   rival   mistresses,  endeared   to   the 
softer,  a  shade  apprehensive  of  the  sterner  Muse. 


1 86 


Heartbreak  Shaw 

FOUR  hours  of  persistent  button-holing  at 
the  Court  Theatre  convinced  the  drama- 
tic critics  that  as  a  simple  entertainment 
Heartbreak  House  was  a  failure.     But  what  else 
it  might  be  they  did  not  try  to  find  out.     They 
hurled  at  the  author  the  quite  meaningless  epithet 
of  "  Shavian  " — as  though  it  were  his  business  to 
be  Tchekovian  or  Dickensian  or  anybody-elsian 
except  himself — and  then  ran  away  like  children 
playing  a  game  of  "tick."     What  is  thereabout 
Mr  Shaw  that  he  should  break  so  many  heads  as 
well  as  hearts?     In  and  out  of  season,  from  his 
preface-tops,  he    has    proclaimed    that    he    is    no 
leisurely  horticulturist,  pottering  about   Nature's 
garden  and   pruning   it   into  trim   shapes.     The 
tragedy  and  comedy  of  life,  he  has  shouted,  come 
from    founding    our    institutions — and    in    these 
he  certainly  includes  our  plays— on  half-satisfied 
passions    instead    of    on    a    genuinely    scientific 
natural    history.     Well,   here   is    natural    history 
preached   with   all    the   fury   of  the   Salvationist. 
With  Shaw  fanaticism  means  the  blind  espousal  of 
reason,  a  marriage  which,  in  the  theatre,  turns  out 
to  be  rather  a  joyless  one.     What,  this  disciple 
would  ask,  in  comparison   with  truth  and  reason 
are  such  petty  virtues  as  good  playwriting,  good 
manners  and  good  taste?    Truth,  like  everything 
else,  is  relative ;  and  what  is  truth  to  the  senti- 
mental, loose-reasoning  playgoer  is  not  necessarily 
truth    to    the  unsentimental,  logical    playwright. 
"  A  fool  sees  not  the  same  tree  that  a  wise  man 
sees."    If  a  man  can  be  partaker  of  God's  theatre, 

187 


Alarums  and  Excursions 

he  shall  likewise  be  partaker  of  God's  rest,  says 
Bacon.  But  if  truth  be  the  thing  which  Shaw 
will  have  most,  rest  is  that  which  he  will  have  not 
at  all.  If  we  will  be  partakers  of  Shaw's  theatre 
we  must  be  prepared  to  be  partakers  of  his  fierce 
unrest. 

But  then  no  thinker  would  ever  desire  to  lay 
up  any  other  reward.  When  Whitman  writes : 
•'  I  have  said  that  the  soul  is  not  more  than  the 
body.  And  I  have  said  that  the  body  is  not  more 
than  the  soul,  And  nothing,  not  God,  is  greater 
to  one  than  oneself  is,"  we  must  either  assent  or 
dissent.  Simply  to  cry  out  "  Whitmanesque  ! " 
is  no  way  out  of  the  difficulty.  When  Ibsen 
writes  a  play  to  prove  that  building  happy  homes 
for  happy  human  beings  is  not  the  highest  peak 
of  human  endeavour,  leaving  us  to  find  out  what 
higher  summit  there  may  be,  he  intends  us  to 
use  our  brains.  It  is  beside  the  point  to  cry  out 
"How  like  Ibsen  ! "  Heartbreak  House  is  a  re- 
statement of  these  two  themes.  You  have  to  get 
Ibsen  thoroughly  in  mind  if  you  are  not  to  find 
the  Zeppelin  at  the  end  of  Shaw's  play  merely 
monstrous.  It  has  already  destroyed  the  people 
who  achieve ;  it  is  to  come  again  to  lighten  the 
talkers'  darkness,  and  at  the  peril  of  all  the  happy 
homes  in  the  neighbourhood.  You  will  do  well 
to  keep  Whitman  in  mind  when  you  hear  the  old 
sea-captain  bellowing  with  a  thousand  different 
intonations  and  qualities  of  emphasis  :  Be  your- 
self, do  not  sleep.  I  do  not  mean,  of  course,  that 
Shaw  had  these  two  themes  actually  in  mind  when 
i88 


Heartbreak  Shaw 

he  set  about  this  rather  maundering,  Tchekovian 
rhapsody.      But  they  have  long  been  part  of  his 
mental  make-up,  and  he  cannot  escape  them  or 
their  implications.     The  difficulty  seems  to  be  in 
the  implications.      Is  a  man  to  persist  in   being 
himself  if  that  self  run  counter  to  God  or  the  in- 
terests of  parish,  nation,  the  community  at  large  ? 
The  characters  in  this  play  are  nearer  to  apes  and 
goats  than  to  men  and  women.     Shall  they  never- 
theless persist  in  being  themselves,  or  shall  they 
pray  to  be  Zeppelin-destroyed  and  born  again  ? 
The  tragedy  of  the  women  is  the  very  ordinary 
one  of  having  married  the  wrong  man.      But  all 
these  men — ^liars  and  humbugs,  ineffectual,  hys- 
terical, neurasthenic — are  wrong  men.     The  play, 
in  so  far  as  it  has  a  material  plot,  is  an  affair  of 
grotesque  and  horrid  accouplements.      It  is  mon- 
strous for  the  young  girl  to  mate  in  any  natural 
sense  with  a,  superficially  considered,  rather  dis- 
gusting old  man.     Shall  she  take  him  in  the  spirit 
as  a  spiritual  mate  ?     Shaw  holds  that  she  shall, 
and  that  in  the  theatre  even  spiritual  truth  shall 
prevail  over  formal  prettiness. 

It  were  easy  to  find  a  surface  resemblance  be- 
tween Heartbreak  House  and  Crotchet  Castle,  to 
transfer  to  our  author  the  coat-of-arms  Peacock 
found  for  his  hero :  "  Crest,  a  crochet  rampant ; 
Arms,  three  empty  bladders,  turgescent."  The 
fact  that  opinions  are  held  with  the  whole  force 
of  belief  prevents  them  from  being  crotchets.  Nor 
would  I  agree  to  "  bladders."  You  have  seen  those 
little  carts  piled  with  iridescent  and  splendiferous 

189 


Alarums  and  Excursions 

balloons,  some  delicately  moored,  afloat  in  thin 
air.  So  this  play  of  wooden  plot  and  inflated 
symbol.  The  cart  may  plough  through  ruts  or 
sink  axle-deep  in  mud,  the  balloons  are  buoyant 
still.  Rude  urchins  may  fling  dirt — the  owner 
of  the  cart  is  not  averse,  when  the  mood  takes 
him,  from  bespattering  it  himself — the  balloons 
still  soar  or  are  made  free  of  the  ether.  Their 
vendor  is  the  old  sea-captain,  a  hawker  of  ideals. 
As  this  world  goes  he  is  mad.  With  him  we  are 
to  climb  Solness's  steeple  all  over  again,  to  catch 
at  "  harps  in  the  air."  To  ears  not  ghostly  attuned 
he  talks  a  jargon  nigh  to  nonsense  ;  yet  through 
him  booms  the  voice  of  that  restless  Force  which 
is  Shaw's  conception  of  God.  Happiness  is  the 
sleepy  pear  ripening  to  decay.  This  is  pure 
Ibsen.  So,  too,  is  the  hymn  to  appetite  and  rum, 
two  things  from  which  our  author  has  held  him- 
self rigidly  aloof.  "  It  is  not  drunkenness  so  long 
as  you  do  not  drift ;  they  are  drunkards  who  sleep 
in  their  cabins,  though  they  have  but  drunk  of  the 
waters  of  Jordan."  I  quote  from  memory.  The 
old  man,  with  his  soul  divinely  loose  about  him, 
has  something  of  the  moral  grandeur  of  Job,  the 
intellectual  stature  of  Isaiah.  There  is  pathos  in 
him.  "  I  can't  bear  to  be  answered  ;  it  discourages 
me,"  is  the  plea  of  waning  power.  And  still  he 
talks,  shunning,  postponing  severance  from  life, 
"seeking  to  ward  ofif  the  last  word  ever  so 
little  .  .  .  garrulous  to  the  very  last."  I  imagine 
this  is  the  one  portrait  in  all  the  long  gallery 
which  the  author  will  "ever  with  pleas'd  smile 
190 


Heartbreak  Shaw 

keep  on,  ever  and  ever  owning " — the  one  to 
which  he,  here  and  now,  signing  for  soul  and 
body,  sets  his  name. 

The  play  stands  or  falls  exactly  as  we  get  or 
miss  this  spiritual  hang.  As  an  entertainment 
pure  and  simple  it  is  dull  and  incoherent — even 
for  Shaw.  It  has  all  the  author's  prolixities  and 
perversities.  It  has  the  old  fault  of  combining 
thinking  on  a  high  level  with  joking  on  a  low 
one.  There  is  the  old  confusion  of  planes.  There 
is  the  plane  upon  which  the  old  man  and  the 
young  girl,  spiritual  adventurers  both,  after  the 
manner  of  Solness  and  Hilda  Wangel,  are  fitting 
spiritual  mates  ;  but  there  is  also  the  plane  upon 
which  the  girl  says :  "  I  am  his  white  wife  ;  he 
has  a  black  one  already."  The  play  is  full  of 
the  "tormented  unreticence  of  the  very  pure." 
Spirituality  chambers  with  lewdness  revealed ; 
beauty  beds  with  nastiness,  which  any  but  the 
nicest  mind  had  instinctively  avoided.  On  all 
planes  but  the  highest  these  people  induce 
nausea.  Throughout  the  evening  Stevenson's  "  I 
say,  Archer — my  God,  what  women ! "  came  to 
mind  over  and  over  again.  "  What  a  captain  !  " 
one  said  in  ecstasy,  but  in  the  next  breath,  "What 
a  crew  !  "  This,  however,  was  merely  the  expres- 
sion of  a  predilection.  Shaw  is  concerned  with 
the  salvation  of  all  his  characters.  Nowhere  in 
this  play  do  I  find  him  with  his  tongue  in  his 
cheek.  I  refuse  to  believe  that  his  Zeppelin  is  an 
irrelevant  joke,  a  device  for  waking  his  audience 
up.     If  I  did  not  take  the  author  to  be  perfectly 

191 


Alarums  and  Excursions 

serious  I  should  dismiss  the  play  as  a  senile  im- 
pertinence. I  found  it  quite  definitely  exhilarat- 
ing and  deeply  moving,  and  it  therefore  ranks  for 
me  among  the  great  testaments.  When  I  saw  it 
at  the  Court  Theatre  it  was  admirably  acted.  For 
the  old  captain  of  Mr  Brember  Wills  was  magni- 
ficently distraught — Ibsen  and  Shaw,  Whitman 
and  General  Booth  rolled  into  one. 


192 


Scaramouch  in  Seven  Dials 

IT  was  pleasant  to  watch,  at  one  of  the  theatres 
tucked  away  in  Seven  Dials,  the  little 
Ambassadors,  where  they  gave  Mr  Barker's 
version  of  Guitry's  Deburau,  the  old  showman 
beat  upon  his  drum.  It  was  a  change  to  hear  the 
banjos  rattle  and  the  tambourines  jing-jing-jingle 
in  the  hands  not  of  a  Shaw  but  of  a  Sacha. 
Cymbals,  one  hailed,  not  symbols.  The  curtain 
rose  on  the  interior  of  a  little  French  theatre  of 
pantomime,  and  at  once  allusions  to  Hugo  and 
Jules  Janin,  the  resurrection  of  Marie  Duplessis, 
fixed  the  date  at  1840.  It  seemed  to  me  that 
some  of  the  figures  in  the  dimly-discerned  stage- 
audience  were  dummies.  They  were  motionless, 
and  whenever  the  living  actors  applauded,  the 
heads  of  the  dummies  shook  like  barbers'  blocks. 
This  device,  if  device  it  were,  induced  a  charming 
sense  of  the  puppet  show,  disposed  us  admirably 
to  the  tragi-comedy  of  a  clown.  Deburau,  vain 
as  a  child,  greedy  of  praise,  is  a  clown,  and  a 
clown  of  history  ;  and  an  alleged  intrigue  with 
the  famous  Lady  of  the  Camelias  is  the  starting- 
point  of  the  play.  (How  pat  the  playwrights 
are  with  their  quasi-historical  loves !  Were  our 
Mr  Drinkwater  Sacha — hypothesis  demanding 
imagination — -he  would,  on  reflection  that  the 
centuries  kiss  and  commingle,  have  doubtless 
inflamed  Mary  Stuart  with  a  passion  for  Old 
Noll.)  No  purpose  is  served,  nor,  whilst  memory 
of  a  great  living  actress  holds,  will  ever  be  served 
by  a  re-statement  of  that  first  meeting  of  Armand 
and  Marguerite.  Guitry  should  have  known  that 
N  193 


Alarums  and  Excursions 

between  this  remembrancer  and  the  old  play  there 
falls  a  shadow,  and  that  we  are  sick  of  an  old 
passion.  Deburau,  abandoned  of  mistress  and 
wife,  sulks  for  seven  years.  Marguerite  coming 
into  his  life  again,  babbling  about  the  rudeness 
of  the  pcre  Duval,  who  would  keep  his  hat  on 
in  her  drawing-room,  he  returns  to  the  stage, 
only  to  be  superseded  by  his  son,  to  whom  he 
reels  off  a  never-ending  version  of  Hamlet's 
advice  to  the  players. 

It  was  strange  that  Deburau,  a  play  so  un- 
doubtedly of  the  theatre,  should  prove  so  dull 
of  performance.  There  was  much  talk  of  love 
in  it,  in  the  French  sense.  In  the  English  the 
word  has  some  shade  of  stability  ;  with  Sacha  it 
is  the  idiom  for  that  riot  of  "  pure  love  "  of  which 
the  old  soldier  said  the  Egyptian  coquette's 
passions  were  composed.  He  winds  up  his  play 
almost  exactly  as  Sarah  used  to  bring  down  the 
curtain  on  the  first  meeting  with  Armand — a 
rapturous  cry  of  "  L'Amour  !  "  This  should  have 
been  very  much  to  the  sentimental  English  taste. 
Then  again,  the  play  is  all  about  actors,  for 
stories  of  whom  we  have  a  passion  in  our  sober, 
collected  way.  That  is  why  we  devour,  in  the 
daily  Press,  the  minuscule  particularities  of  the 
theatre-gossips.  There's  such  glamour  doth 
hedge  your  actor,  though  it  be  formal  and  obvious 
as  the  daub  on  the  cheek  of  the  clown.  I  may 
know  in  my  heart  of  hearts  that  Mr  Ainley  is 
not  always  toga'd  and,  at  his  club,  condescends 
to  tweeds,  that  Mr  du  Maurier,  were  he  in  real 
194 


Scaramouch  in  Seven  Dials 

life  tied  to  a  chair  and  revolver-threatened,  might 
be  a  shade  less  than  imperturbable.      But  I  will 
never  admit  that  my  stage-heroes  shall  be  less  than 
heroic.     That    Frenchman    libelled    who    wrote : 
"  You  admire  the  artist's  convictions  ;  he  has  none. 
You  soar  with  him  to  some  seventh  heaven  ;  he 
cocks  an  eye  at  your  beatitude,  and  asks  himself 
'Am  I  indeed  a  god.**'"    Acting  for  me  shall  be 
a   religion   and   the  actor  a  disciple.      Pierrot  is 
the  abstract  and  embodiment  of  all  actors,  hence 
the  object  of  universal  adoration.      He  is  a  figure 
after  our   English   heart,   though,  alas!    not   the 
creation  of  English  genius.     We  concede  him  to 
France   to   make   up   for    her   lack   of  an   Ariel. 
But  this  is  only  because  we  did  not  happen  to 
think  of  him.     When  we  did,  we  conceived  him 
as  a  little  boy  and  made  of  him  a  play  for  little 
boys.     After    our    shamefaced    English    way   we 
leave  Peter  Pan  in  the  nursery,  whereas  Pierrot 
is    of   the    very    stuff  of   life.       If  then,    in    the 
writings  of  certain  of  our  countrymen,  say  Lamb, 
Stevenson  and  Barrie,  we  get  near  to  Pierrot,  it 
is  rare   that   he  colours   our   writers'  lives.      De 
Quincey,  you   say,  and  Dowson.      Ah,  but  who 
then  }     Whereas   the   Villous,  the  Verlaines  are 
Pierrot.      No    plain    Englishman    will,    however, 
resist  a  pitiful  story,  though  it  take  on  an  alien 
turn.      Listen  to  this  one.     Seventy   years  ago, 
on  a  night  of  driving  snow,  a  starving  poet,  one 
Gerard   de    Nerval,   knocked  at    the   door   of  a 
leprous  and   sinister   house   where  his  rags  had 
often  found  shelter.     There  was  no  answer.      He 

195 


Alarums  and  Excursions 

knocked  and  knocked  again  but  without  avail. 
Darkness  descending  upon  his  soul,  the  poor 
wander-wit  fastened  a  bootlace  to  the  shutter  and 
hanged  himself.  When  they  found  him,  his  feet, 
which  had  gone  so  lightly  upon  earth,  rested  gently 
on  the  snow.  This  is  Pierrot  in  his  tragic  aspect, 
and  the  nearest  we  English  can  show  is  the  Fool 
on  the  Heath.  Pierrot  sentimental  is  Laforgue's, 
a  jester  moving  broken-heartedly  among  such 
harsh  realities  as  omnibuses,  m/tros,  umbrellas, 
warm-breathing  mistresses  whose  hearts  he  breaks 
in  turn  because  his  passion  is  of  the  spirit  only. 
Something  after  this  fashion  Jack  Point.  And 
when  we  reflect  upon  Pierrot  dying  delicately, 
laid  exquisitely  to  rest  in  a  lady's  puff-box,  we 
remember  with  pride  that  Beardsley  was  of  our 
race. 

Here,  then,  is  a  charming  subject  treated  with 
less  than  the  felicity  of  a  Rostand  but  not  un- 
poetically,  beautifully,  even  provocatively  staged, 
but  which  quite  failed  to  move.  The  fault,  I 
must  think,  lay  entirely  with  the  actor  who  was 
Pierrot.  The  part  is  immensely  difficult.  Sarah 
would  always  have  been,  would  now  and  ever 
be,  ineffable.  So,  too,  in  his  medium,  Chaplin, 
only  you  would  have  to  give  him  leave  to  cry. 
On  the  English  stage  I  can  think  only  of 
Mr  Leon  Quartermaine,  or  possibly — on  the 
strength  of  his  beautiful  performance  in  Mary 
T^os^— and  after  much  governance,  Mr  Thesiger. 
Our  Seven  Dials  Scaramouch  was  Mr  Robert 
Loraine,  and  this  I  take  to  be  the  reason  of  the 
196 


Scaramouch  in  Seven  Dials 

play's  disappointment.  As  well  had  they  chosen 
Mr  McKinnel !  Both  are  good  actors  in  the 
sterling-  •  you  would  not  call  them  wistful  or 
crepuscular.  I  was  not  to  be  persuaded  that 
Mr  Loraine  was  ever  of  the  moon  ;  rather  did 
his  solidity  make  ghosts  of  his  companions.  Not 
of  plaster-of- Paris  but  good  white  stone,  he  stood 
four-square,  possessed  not  of  sensibility  but  of 
sense,  not  of  a  sprite  but  of  a  conscience.  His 
white  blouse  was  no  shroud  but  a  bricklayer's 
smock.  He  suggested  a  substantial  bank-book, 
whereas  Pierrot,  at  a  pinch,  should  be  capable 
of  robbing  a  bank.  As  Des  Grieux  Mr  Loraine 
was  quite  improbable  ;  as  a  gigolo,  to  borrow  a 
classicism  of  the  Place  Blanche,  he  was  incredible. 
Never  was  it  possible  that  this  Deburau  had 
lacked  "  bon  souper,  bon  gite,  et  le  reste."  Never 
had  this  Pierrot  pleaded  : 

"  Ma  chandelle  est  morte,  je  n'ai  plus  de  feu, 
Ouvrez-moi  la  porte,  pour  I'amour  de  Dieu." 

Never  had  you  laid  him  to  rest  in  a  puff-box. 

Miss  Titheradge's  Marguerite  was  charming, 
that  artificiality  which  ruined  her  Desdemona 
standing  her  in  good  stead  here.  It  was  a  very 
clever  performance  touched  in  with  admirable 
understanding  and  malice.  One  wanted  to  take 
up  and  handle  this  Marguerite  as  though  she 
were  an  ornament  of  the  period.  There  was 
only  one  other  figure  besides  Miss  Titheradge 
which  was  genuinely  1840,  and  that  was  the 
female  pander  of  Miss  Beverly  Sitgreaves.     She 

197 


Alarums  and  Excursions 

presented  to  the  life  Balzac's  marchande  a  la  toilette, 
which  is  by  no  means  the  same  thing  as  the 
respectable  English  wardrobe  dealer.  The  shape, 
make  and  atmosphere  of  these  little  French 
theatres  was  admirably  reproduced,  and  very 
little,  I  imagine,  was  needed  to  make  the  play 
a  success.  But  then  many  a  Hamlet  manqu^  had 
been  a  success  if  you  could  have  changed  the 
Prince  of  Denmark. 


198 


The  Hound  of  Drinkwater 

READER,  do  you  know  what  a  Repertory 
Theatre  is  ?  I  do  not  mean  the  high- 
-  spirited  venture  which  thirty  years  of 
Chelsea  dilettantism  have  turned  into  the  fashion- 
able thing.  I  am  thinking  of  Sloane  Square's 
poorer  sisters.  Of  one  which  recently,  in  the 
cold  North,  died  of  inanition,  but,  like  the  tramp 
in  Richard  Middleton's  story,  turns  up  ever  and 
ever  ao^ain.  Whenever  I  muse  of  the  theatre 
which  Manchester  miscalled  the  Gaiety,  my  mind 
harks  back  to  repertory  playgoing,  so  hardly 
distinguishable  from  religious  observance.  How 
devoutly  one  "  sat  under "  Nonconformist  pro- 
ducers, who  have  since  reverted  to  the  Established 
Church.  How  well  one  recalls  the  old  stage-set 
which  hardly  ever  changed.  Against  the  wall, 
R.,  a  Welsh  dresser,  obviously  rickety.  L.,  a 
heap  of  slag.  L.C,  a  smaller  heap.  Clinkers 
strewn  here  and  there.  On  a  chair  R.C.,  a  re- 
pertory actress  of  exceeding  melancholy.  To  her 
a  sad  young  man  makes  moan  :  "  The  tide  be  a- 
wambling  in!"  In  the  mind's  eye,  from  my  seat 
in  the  dress-circle — heavens !  how  I  used  to  hate 
that  seat  with  its  affected  aloofness  from  con- 
tamination—  I  see  serried  rows  and  crescents  of 
the  meek,  striving  to  pierce  the  intellectual  gloom. 
None  laughs  lest  he  be  thought  to  brawl  in 
church.  The  play  over,  we  disperse  mistily.  Faded 
wraiths,  who  in  happier  days  had  been  vergers  and 
apparitors,  hand  us  our  wraps.  One  or  two  of  the 
congregation,  palely  loitering,  remain  to  whisper 
of  the  play.      Repertory  hath  them  in  thrall. 

199 


Alarums  and  Excursions 

I  confess  to  having  acquired,  in  the  theatre, 
something  of  second  sight.  Before  the  curtain 
rises  I  know  instinctively  into  which  of  my  pigeon- 
holes a  play  will  go.  Abraham  Liftcoln  went  so 
definitely  into  the  niche  marked  "  Repertory " 
that,  until  this  week,  I  had  taken  all  legitimate 
steps  to  avoid  seeing  a  stage  representation  of  it. 
Of  all  the  functions  of  art,  moral  uplift.  Repertory's 
handmaid,  is  the  one  which  least  appeals  to  me. 
I  am  a  sedulous  eschewer  of  the  works  of  Dr 
Brewer  and  Samuel  Smiles,  Ella  Wheeler  Wilcox 
and  Mrs  Humphry  Ward.  As  soon  as  I  have 
mastered  the  latest  ritual  of  that  sin  which  it  is 
Sir  Hall  Caine's  spiritual  mission  to  deprecate,  I 
lay  that  moralist  down.  Until  last  week  I  had 
not  laid  Mr  Drinkwater  down  ;  I  had  forborne  to 
take  him  up.  His  masterpiece  had  been  hailed 
with  an  unctuous  paean,  acclaimed  "  with  a  snaf- 
fling voyce  "  by  the  wrong  people.  By  "  the  wrong 
people  "  I  mean  those  who,  mistaking  Gladstone 
for  a  great  spiritual  force,  insist  that  any  play 
about  him  must  necessarily  be  a  great  play.  Since 
Lincoln  was  "unspeakably  and  for  ever  precious 
to  Democracy,"  the  stage-story  of  his  life,  it  is 
implied,  must  rank  as  drama  unspeakably  and 
for  ever  precious.  I  do  not  know  a  more  mischiev- 
ous theory.  I  am  frankly  prejudiced  against 
your  stage-Gladstones,  stage-Cromwells,  stage- 
Lincolns.  True  that  I  liked  Pasteur,  but  then 
"  Sacha  "  treads  the  same  idle  pavement  as  my- 
self He  is  a  flaneur  held  up  momentarily  by 
the  chance  encounter  of  a  great  man,  whereas 
200 


The  Hound  of  Drinkwater 

"  Mr  Drinkwater "  suggests  not  so  much  the 
saunterer  as  the  pilgrim.  There  is  Bunyan  in 
the  temperate  name,  as  there  is  the  boulevard 
in  the  crisp,  familiar  "Sacha."  Yet  it  is  not  the 
spirit  of  Puritanism  that  I  fear,  but  the  spirit  of 
proselytism,  the  risk  of  being  "got  at."  I  feel 
that  the  theatre  which  is  in  my  blood  is  not  the 
theatre  of  Mr  Drinkwater,  that  my  actors  are  not 
his  actors  nor  my  spectators  his  spectators,  that 
the  rogues  and  vagabonds  who  are  to  me  the  salt 
of  the  earth  are  to  him  only  the  dear  material  of 
reclamation,  that  he  is  out  to  save  my  soul.  I 
had  always  felt  that  this  play  was  a  play  such  as 
they  like  in  Manchester,  a  commemoration  for 
which  one  does  not  dress. 

Again  there  was  that  stumbling-block,  America. 
What  did  I  know  of  this  vast  and  doubtless  civilised 
country  .'*  A  weary  story  of  Columbus  ;  the  senti- 
mental debauchery  of  Mrs  Stowe  ;  Jackson  and 
Slavin  ;  that  negroid  delicacy,  the  jazz  ;  that  well 
of  English,  the  cinema-title;  the  hysteria  of  Los 
Angeles.  Nearly  all  these  things  are  unspeak- 
able, but  to  me  only  the  prize-fighters  are  pre- 
cious. Why  had  not  Mr  Drinkwater  written  about 
a  president  assassinated  nearer  home  ?  It  was 
not  until  I  read  a  condemnation  of  the  play  by 
a  gentleman  with  whom  I  invariably  disagree 
that  I  felt  I  must  seek  out  the  Scala  Theatre  for 
myself. 

A  scoffer,  I  met  with  the  scoffer's  reward.  You 
may  say  that  the  theatre  is  not  a  tabernacle.  I 
suggest  that  to  misuse  the  theatre  so  is  not  to 

20l 


Alarums  and  Excursions 

profane  it.  ''Abraham  Lincoln  is  not  a  play." 
I  suggest  that  it  may  be  a  very  beautiful  some- 
thing else.  Throughout  the  first  act,  the  local 
and  the  characters,  the  thin,  pawky  atmosphere 
of  this  transatlantic  Drumtochty,  the  dressed- 
up  manikins  masquerading  as  statesmen,  their 
mouthing  chief  himself  afforded,  I  admit,  a 
chastened  delight.  Here  was  the  New  England 
Adam  Bede,  sententious,  hortatory.  And  then 
quite  suddenly  I  "got  "  Lincoln,  in  the  way  people 
"get  "  religion.  It  was  no  longer  a  question  of 
liking  or  disliking.  You  do  not  like  or  dislike 
the  story  of  the  Flood,  the  Psalms  of  David,  the 
character  of  St  Paul.  These  things  just  are.  So 
Lincoln  became,  and  I  am  not  yet  free  of  him. 
This  evangelist  of  the  backwoods  intruded  him- 
self, I  hope  quite  momentarily,  between  me  and 
the  normal  theatre,  which  suddenly  seemed  so 
much  less  worth  while.  In  vain  I  fled  him.  I 
fled  him  down  the  labyrinthine  ways  of  Goodge 
Street  and  the  Tottenham  Court  Road  ;  later,  of 
my  own  mind.  But  in  vain.  Ever  am  I  hunted 
of  Lincoln,  still  am  I  hound  of  Drinkwater. 

Such  experiences  as  these  show  how  much  more 
comprehensive  the  theatre  is  than  we  are  usually 
inclined  to  allow.  Does  it  not  come  to  this,  that 
there  are  as  many  theatres  as  there  are  great 
minds  ?  It  is  interesting  to  compare  Abraham 
Lincoln  with  The  Burgomaster  of  Stilemoncie. 
This  very  skilful  and  theatrical  little  melodrama 
is  hung  by  Maeterlinck  on  the  Great  War,  just  as 
the  tear-compelling  Charles  I.  was  hung  by  Wills 
202 


The  Hound  of  Drinkwater 

on  the  Roundhead  squabbles.      A  German  officer 
has  been  killed  during  the  occupation  of  a  little 
Belgian  town,  and  the  German  commandant  gives 
the   burgomaster  the  choice  between   giving  up 
his   innocent   retainer   to  be  shot  or  being  shot 
himself.      The    theme    is    purely   individual    and 
sentimental ;  there  is  nothing  here  but  the  per- 
sonal dilemma.      Maeterlinck  sings  the  ordinary 
man,  the  non-hero,  the  lover  of  seemliness  and 
decency.      He  makes  the  point  that  this  ordinary 
man  has  "a  most  attractive  mind,"  and  this  fine 
thing  is  the  highest  of  the  play's  philosophy.      If 
you  had  tears  for   the  burgomaster — ^and  many 
had  plenty  when  they   saw    Sir    John's   pathetic 
portrait,   wistful,   yet  full  of  whimsey — you  shed 
them  there  and  then,  and  thought  no  more  of  the 
matter.     At  Lincoln's  apotheosis  you   were  dry- 
eyed.     You  did  not  react  to  the  purely  personal 
side  of  the  drama ;  the  issue  was  remoter,  finer, 
of  greater  endurance.      I  do  not  know  that  I  con- 
sider Mr  William  J.  Rea  to  be  a  great  actor  ;   I 
do  know  that  in  him  are  shrivelled  up  what,  but 
for  his  twin-spirit.  Sir  Frank   Benson,  would  be 
all    my   notions   about    great    acting.      Both    are 
bunglers  and  botchers  in  any  way  of  detail ;  both 
present  the  faultless,   incomparable   whole.      Mr 
Rea,  as  I   saw  him  on  that  evening,  is  uncouth- 
ness   personified,   his   lightest    tone  a   dirge,   his 
speeches   anthems.      He   makes    Lincoln    talk  of 
supper  as  of  funeral  baked  meats.     Some  of  his 
intonations,  which  do  not  appear  assumed,  make 
me  uneasy  about   his    Hamlet.      Yet  in  this  part 

203 


Alarums  and  Excursions 

he  satisfied  me  utterly.  What  dapperer  actor 
could  give  rectitude  so  comfortable  a  habit  ?  His 
gentleness  with  the  bereaved  mother  and  the  boy 
is  strictly  of  the  theatre  and  within  the  compass 
of  any  purely  emotional  actor.  What  is  outside 
theatricalism — and  perhaps  all  the  finer,  though 
I  will  not  dogmatise — is  a  natural  spirituality,  a 
glow  of  purpose  and  gift  of  healing.  Contemplat- 
ing Mr  Rea,  and  through  him  Lincoln,  you  are 
further  from  base  metal  than  is  usual  in  the  theatre. 
I  have  one  little  reservation  to  make ;  but 
whether  Mr  Rea  or  Mr  Drinkwater  or  Lincoln 
himself  be  to  blame,  I  am  not  quite  sure.  I  found 
myself  a  little  irked,  once  or  twice,  by  a  certain 
priggishness  in  the  great  man.  There  is  a  passage 
in  Whitman  in  which  the  poet  describes  a  meeting 
with  the  President.  "  His  look,  though  abstractedy 
happened  to  be  directed  steadily  in  my  eye.  He 
bowed  and  smiled,  but  far  beneath  his  smile  I 
noticed  the  expression  I  have  alluded  to."  Mr  Rea 
has  caught  this  wonderfully  well.  His  Lincoln 
has  a  trick  of  spiritual  withdrawal,  of  commun- 
ing in  another  place,  which  is  not  a  little  irritating. 
That  one  acquits  him  of  any  possibility  of  pose 
only  makes  it  worse.  We  do  not  care  to  be  so 
patently  reminded  of  our  commoner  clay.  Does 
the  President  parade  his  moral  uplift  a  shade  too 
insistently  }  Is  there  a  hint  of  spiritual  snobbish- 
ness about  him  ?  I  feel  that  no  human  being  ever 
breathed  with  whom  he  had  comfortably  hob- 
nobbed, unless  it  be  Matthew  Arnold.  And  even 
he,  as  we  know,  was  not  always  "  wholly  serious." 
204 


A  Point  of  Style 

THERE  were  once  two  brothers,  novelists 
both,  who  held  lucidity  to  be  not  only 
the  first  but  also  the  last  virtue  of 
their  craft.  Conceiving  their  plots  overnight  in 
a  proper  state  of  spiritual  intoxication,  they  left 
their  ordering  till  the  morning,  when,  as  Dick 
Phenyl  would  say,  their  lucidity  was  devilish. 
In  the  clear  light  of  day  they  hammered  out 
thought  and  expression  to  the  tenuity  of  gold- 
beater's skin.  The  absence  of  style,  they  said, 
proclaimed  the  man.  And  so  they  rectified  their 
well  of  English  to  the  tastelessness  of  distilled 
water.  Whether  they  wrote  separately,  as  in 
Babbling  Brooks  and  Prattle,  or  in  collaboration, 
as  in  Sancta  Simplicitas,  there  was  the  same 
careful  smoothing  away  of  individuality.  I  used 
to  think  they  wore  rubber  gloves  to  obviate  the 
possibility  of  even  the  tiniest  finger-print.  They 
liked  words  of  one  syllable.  Was  their  limpidity 
threatened  by  an  allusion  too  obscure,  they  gave 
chapter  and  verse.  "  Translucence,"  they  said, 
in  Lambent  yet  Innocuous,  "  is  to  us  what  King 
Charles's  head  (Charles  I.  of  England,  executed 
in  Whitehall,  Jan.  30th,  1649)  was  to  Mr  Dick 
(a  character  in  David  Copper  field,  by  Charles 
Dickens)."  These  a-complexionists  came  vividly 
to  mind  one  day  when  I  received  a  plaintive 
letter  craving  enlightenment  about  an  article 
which  I  had  contributed  to  a  critical  journal. 
"Who,  o'  God's  name,  is  Mr  Walkley  ?  What 
do  you  mean  by  '  Crocitis '  ?  Why  do  you  put 
'  constellatory  importance  '  in  inverted  commas  ?  " 

205 


Alarums  and  Excursions 

At  once  I  realised  that  my  correspondent  was 
an  actor,  the  illiteracy  of  "  the  profession  "  being 
one  of  my  cherished  beliefs.  But  then  I  am 
descended  from  a  stage-player  —  one  Edward 
Shuter,  of  whom  the  learned  Mantzius  writes : 
"  He  was  exceedingly  religious,  a  great  drinker, 
and  of  a  bottomless  ignorance — he  was  barely 
able  to  read  his  parts  and  could  not  write  at  all ; 
on  the  stage  he  had,  when  sober,  a  natural  wit, 
and  a  certainty  of  touch  in  comedy,  which  elicited 
the  highest  admiration  from  the  best  judges  of 
the  period.  Gar  rick  for  instance."  I  am  not  irked 
by  this  portrait  of  my  forbear.  "  A  natural  wit 
when  sober."  This  pleases  me.  Of  Fleury, 
Samson  writes  that  "  he  spoke  as  elegantly  as  a 
Marquis  and  spelled  like  a  kitchen  maid."  I 
know  of  little  evidence  which  would  point  to  the 
possession  by  the  modern  actor  of  a  greater 
degree  of  literacy.  True  that  upon  one  occasion 
I  sate  {imp.  of  the  verb  to  sit.  Archaic.)  next  to 
an  eminent  romantic  actor  in  the  Tube,  and  noted 
that  he  accorded  to  his  newspaper  every  appear- 
ance of  intelligent  perusal,  holding  it,  moreover, 
the  right  way  up.  And  then  there  are  the  extra- 
ordinary literary  achievements  of  Mr  Gerald  du 
Maurier.  The  skill  with  which,  in  Critics  on 
Toast,  he  has  pinked  his  persecutors,  amounts 
to  genius.  "  The  doctor's  portentous  bag  was  so 
dative  and  absolute.  All  through  the  thirteen 
acts  that  bag,  that  vasta  hasketina,  seemed  to  focus 
the  attention  and  birker  one's  vulgar  curiosity." 
Art  thou  there,  true-penny  ?  Brilliant  mole, 
206 


A  Point  of  Style 

whose  burrowings  the  vulgar  find  "deep,"  will 
you  not  cast  prejudice  aside  and  consent  to  this 
as  the  perfect  pastiche  ?  I  can  only  account  for 
such  writing  by  supposing  Mr  du  Maurier  not  to 
be  an  actor  at  all,  but  only  the  most  percipient 
and  witty  creature  that  ever  strayed  on  to  the 
stage.  1  thank  Heaven  that  a  pedestrious  style 
offers  no  target. 

The  point  I  would  make  is  not  that  actors 
cannot  write,  which,  after  all,  is  not  their  business, 
but  that  they  do  not  read,  or,  reading,  find  extra- 
ordinary difficulties.  They  may  plead  perhaps 
that  they  are  too  busy  with  original  creation  to 
bother  about  secondary  penetrativeness  of  a 
hundred  years  ago.  Very  well  then,  I  will  leave 
the  author  of  '*  constellatory  importance  "  out  of 
it.  Do  they  read  Mr  Walkley  ?  One  of  them 
does,  as  we  have  seen,  but  even  he  is  a  little 
perplexed  by  his  author's  excursiveness.  He 
makes  no  allowance  for  cramped  space.  Lucidity, 
such  as  my  two  novelists  possessed,  requires  a 
certain  elbow-room  ;  lacking  that,  the  critic  takes 
to  the  allusive-excursive  as  a  kind  of  shorthand. 
Admirers  of  Mr  Walkley  have  observed  with 
regret  a  growing  inability  to  shake  off  that  old 
man  of  the  sea,  Benedetto  Croce.  "  Crocitis  "  is 
an  obvious  logogram  (Gr.  Xo'yo?  word,  I  gram.  Cf. 
Grammalogue. — Sir  Isaac  Pitman.)  for  this  creep- 
ing infirmity.  The  commas  which  hinted  at 
Lamb,  and  so  greatly  bothered  my  correspondent, 
are  more  complex.  I  remember  surveying  the 
alternatives  of  insertion  and  omission  with  equal 

207 


Alarums  and  Excursions 

If  I  left  them  out,  "  Unblushing 
thief!"  might  be  said.  If  I  put  them  in,  I  heard 
the  reader's  impatient  "  What,  that  old  thing 
again  !  "  And  the  charge  turns  out  to  be  one  of 
obscurity !  Can  it  really  be  that  the  modern 
actor  does  not  read  what  his  betters  have  had  to 
say  of  the  great  practitioners  of  his  art  ?  Some- 
times I  have  the  uncomfortable  feeling  that  the 
critic  is  accused  of  "showing  off."  How  far  this 
is  from  the  truth  only  those  know  who,  in  all 
humility,  strain  every  nerve  to  be  worthy  of  their 
readers.  Mr  Walkley  stands  in  no  such  need. 
He  can  coruscate  with  any  Macaroni  or  macaroni- 
eater  of  them  all.  It  is  excess  of  modesty  which 
makes  of  him  a  borrower.  Who,  pray,  is  this 
foreign  encroacher  that  he  should  burden  the 
shoulders  of  our  foremost  critic,  pluck  him  by  the 
beard,  tweak  him  by  the  nose,  and  come  near  to 
addling  that  reverend  pate  }  There  is,  we  are 
told,  an  art  of  quotation  so  subtle  as  to  "put 
wise "  your  astute  reader  and  leave  the  dense 
undisturbed  by  wink  or  nod.  This  has  always 
seemed  to  me  an  inverted  snobbishness,  like 
offering  your  guest  champagne  out  of  pewter  and 
pretending  that  it  is  the  smallest  of  small  beer. 
The  truly  modest  critic  is  he  who  turns  to  his 
superiors  as  satellite  to  luminary.  He  is  the 
humble  frog  who,  when  he  goes  a-wooing  his 
reader,  scrutinises  and  titivates  his  dress,  takes 
his  opera  hat  and  prinks  before  his  glass.  Then, 
and  then  only,  will  he  dive  into  the  stream.  He 
should  sign  "  Anthony  Rowley."  An  such  a 
208 


A  Point  of  Style 

critic  put  a  friend  into  his  mouth  to  supplement 
his  lack  of  wit,  to  repair,  belike,  the  "bottomless 
ignorance  "  of  his  inheritance,  he  is  to  be  accused 
not  of  egotism  but  of  ergotism.  (Lat.  ergo.  Obs. 
— Sir  Thomas  Browne.)  He  recalls  something 
said  by  Shakespeare  or  Lamb  or  Mr  Walkley. 
Ergo,  that  something  is  the  best,  and  he 
appropriates  it.  Were  not  these  great  ones  ap- 
propriators  too  ?  Has  none  of  them  ever  dipped 
into  that  vasta  basketina  which  is  Aristotle  ? 

If  this  be  error  and  upon  me  proved, 
I  never  writ,  nor  no  man's  writing  loved. 

Finally,  I  would  ask  whether  a  certain  turgidity 
of  style  may  not,  in  the  long  run,  pay  the  actor 
better  than  the  uncompromising  monosyllabic. 
Imagine  my  crystal-clear  novelists  in  pursuit  of, 
say,  Mr  du  Maurier.  "  We  al-ways  like  this 
ac-tor.  He  is  very  grace-ful.  He  has  a  fun-ny 
walk,  but  he  has  al-so  nice  ways."  W^ere  Anthony 
Rowley  to  write  like  this,  the  lily-white  ducks 
who  flop  about  the  matinee-pond  would,  of  a 
surety,  gobble  him  up.  Contrariwise,  elles  ne  le 
goberaient  pas  du  tout.  Imagine  my  lucid  brothers 
at  grips  with  a  wooden  actor.  Would  they  not 
say,  "He  is  a  stick"?  How  much  more  polite 
of  them  to  use  the  botanist's  "  suffruticose " ! 
Imagine  them  lucidly  agape  before  that  recent 
comedy  in  which  Lady  Tree  pretended  to  be 
eighty-one.  "At  one  mo-ment,"  I  imagine  them 
saying,  "did  this  pret-ty  la-dy  look  like  Fair 
Ros-a-mund  (mis-tress  of  Hen-ry  II.  of  Eng-land, 
o  209 


Alarums  and  Excursions 

1 1 33- 1 189),  at  the  next  like  Mis-tress  Skew-ton 
(a  char-ac-ter  in  Dom-bey  and  Son,  by  Charles 
Dick-ens).  Her  act-ing  is  thrown  a-way  on  this 
play  which  is  not  fun-ny.  It  is  choked  with 
rub-bish.  We  do  not  like  it."  Whereas  I,  going 
about  it  and  about — I  must  believe  to  the  ac- 
tor's greater  satisfaction — had  elaborated  thus  : 
"  This  play  is  costive  of  laughter  ^ ;  I  am  tristi- 
tiated  that  acting  of  such  humour  should  fail  of 
deoppilation." 

'  Ben  Jonson. 


210 


H ippocampelephantocamelos  or 
the  Function  of  the  Red  Nose 
in  Melodrama 

Your  nose  is  your  true  red  herring. 
Oi.n  Writer. 

THE  old  Greek  who  said  that  the  function 
of  Tragedy  is  to  give  the  pleasure  which 
arises  from  pity  and  terror,  forgot  to 
take  into  account  those  quite  nice  people  who 
fail  to  get  entertainment  from  the  austere  pre- 
sentation of  pitiful  and  terrible  things.  For 
these  honest  souls  a  form  of  drama  has  to  be 
devised  in  which  tragical  things  may  be  handled 
in  an  easier  idiom.  Simple  folk  like  to  check 
stage-happenings  by  their  relation  to  personal 
experience,  and  clumsy  articulation  often  stirs 
emotion  which  would  be  put  off  by  a  nicer 
exposition.  Melodrama  is  a  refining  of  tragic 
statement  to  a  blunt  exposition  of  the  same 
theme  in  a  manner  of  which  a  particular  audience 
has  experience.  In  mean  streets  Othello's  rage 
is  a  commonplace  phenomenon,  and  you  will 
probably  best  persuade  the  jealous  butcher  at 
the  corner  not  to  throw  away  a  pearl  richer  than 
all  his  stock,  if  you  thumb-screw  the  local  lago 
into  a  fifth-act  confession  and  restore  the  lady 
by  artificial  respiration.  This  may  sound  crude, 
but  to  many  people  life  is  a  crude  affair. 

It  is  foolish  to  judge  by  cesthetic  standards 
plays  which  have  no  ccsthetic  quality,  but  still 
more  foolish  to  deny  some  power  of  hardy, 
thistle-like  persistence  to  ineptitudes  which  have 

211 


Alarums  and  Excursions 

taken  root  in  the  popular  imagination.  It  is  no 
reproach  to  the  humblest  evergreen  to  say  that 
it  flourishes  all  the  year  round  ;  that  is,  in  point 
of  fact,  its  saving  grace.  The  saving  grace 
of  melodrama  is  that  it  reiterates  in  and  out 
of  season  that  which  popular  audiences  most 
wish  to  hear.  In  any  play  about  Waterloo, 
Napoleon  will  asseverate  unceasingly  that  the 
word  "  impossible  "  does  not  exist  ;  Josephine, 
that  humble  love  is  the  best,  that  first  marriages 
are  made  in  heaven  and  second  ones  on  earth, 
and  that  not  even  a  Buonaparte  can  outrage 
the  law.  Plays  like  A  Royal  Divorce  have 
existed  for  donkeys'  years,  but  so  have  donkeys  ; 
and  the  critic  who  lumps  all  mules  and  melo- 
dramas together  writes  him  down  an  ass.  A 
good  melodrama  is  one  which  makes  a  whole- 
hearted appeal  to  the  gallery  ;  it  risks  failure 
if  it  cock  one  eye  at  the  stalls.  A  good  in- 
tellectual drama  is  one  which  plays  successfully 
on  the  intelligence  one  associates,  perhaps 
wrongly,  with  the  boxes  ;  if  such  a  drama  try 
to  conciliate  the  gallery  it  will  probably  decline 
to  pleasing  the  dress  circle. 

The  theatre  is  a  place  in  which  people  of  all 
classes  assemble  in  a  body  to  witness  a  portrayal 
of  emotions  common  to  every  member  of  that 
body.  A  theatrical  audience  is  an  indivisible 
whole,  and  not  a  conglomerate  entity  divisible 
into  separate  units.  Let  but  a  single  member 
of  that  audience  feel  "out  of  it,"  and  the  play 
is  not  a  masterpiece  of  the  highest  order.     The 

212 


Hippocampelephantocamelos 

greatest  plays  are  not  those  which  have  been 
written  for  the  judicious  with  some  added 
frippery  to  please  the  groundlings ;  they  are 
written  fundamentally  to  delight  the  plain  man, 
with  a  superstructure  of  elegance  and  elaboration 
to  gratify  the  elect.  A  Royal  Divorce  is  not  a 
work  of  high  art,  The  Master  Builder  is  ;  but  I 
have  little  doubt  which  contains  the  better  theme 
for  theatrical  exposition,  and  none  at  all  as  to 
which  Shakespeare  would  have  chosen. 

To  the  elder  Irving  melodrama  was  child's 
play  and  he  took  a  child's  delight  in  it.  The 
torrent  of  his  passion  would  sweep  away  like 
pebbles  improbabilities  which  to  a  mere  in- 
tellectual had  been  veritable  boulders.  It  was 
from  the  dross  of  melodrama  rather  than  the 
gold  of  tragedy  that  this  actor  fashioned  his 
most  grotesque  and  terrible  figures.  Cast  the 
mind  back  to  The  Lyons  Mail,  the  silencing  of 
the  stable-boy  by  the  simple  method  of  hitting 
him  on  the  head  with  a  bucket,  the  rifling  of 
the  mail-bags  after  the  manner  of  a  hungry  beast, 
the  tigerish  petting  and  mauling  of  the  con- 
federates, the  sheer  animalism  of  Dubosc,  the 
drumming  with  his  boots  as  he  lay  on  the  garret 
floor  —  and  remember  how  all  this  was  done 
with  such  tremendous  gusto  as  to  carry  the 
audience  beyond  any  power  of  resistance  or  the 
desire  to  examine  the  method  of  fascination. 
To  be  sure,  no  calculation  was  ever  made  as  to 
the  number  of  pennyworths  of  intellect  expended 
in    the    display.      It    was    Irving's    temperament 

213 


Alarums  and  Excursions 

and  not  his  intellect  which  stood  the  racket. 
It  is  instructive  to  compare  his  performance  with 
that  of  the  son  in  the  same  part,  from  which 
temperament  was  almost  entirely  absent.  The 
younger  Irving  played  Dubosc  with  his  intellect, 
and  with  his  intellect  alone.  You  were  inter- 
ested where,  in  earlier  days,  you  had  been  en- 
thralled. You  felt  that  the  actor  was  hampered 
by  too  exact  a  knowledge  of  the  psychology  of 
murder,  and  by  a  desire  to  go  beyond  the  melo- 
dramatic scope.  He  hankered  after  a  villain 
with  some  subtlety  about  him — a  denizen  of 
Victor  Hugo's  third  sub-stage,  a  Lacenaire  whil- 
ing  away  the  interval  of  waiting  for  his  victim 
with  Rousseau's  Social  Contract.  In  his  study 
of  French  criminals  H.  B.  Irving  writes  of  one 
"  whose  face  was  that  of  a  Mephistopheles  with 
the  light  of  hell  gone  out  of  it."  In  the  face 
of  the  older  actor  the  light  of  hell  blazed  ever 
romantically  ;  the  mask  of  the  younger  was  all 
hooded  malevolence. 

"  Tout  droit  dans  son  armure,  un  grand  homme 
de  pierre 
Se  tenait  a  la  barre  et  coupait  le  flot  noir  ; 
Mais  le  calme  heros,  courb^  sur  sa  rapiere, 
Regardait  le  sillage  et  ne  daignait  rien  voir." 

That  is  the  younger  Irving.  It  is  not  possible 
to  imagine  the  old  man  cairn,  bent  over  his  rapier, 
wrapped  in  tragic  contemplation.  He  would 
have  cried  Havoc!  and  fought  to  the  last  inch  of 
his  steel. 
214 


Hippocampelephantocamelos 

For  melodrama  to  succeed  there  are  two  prime 
conditions.  The  first,  which  I  have  already  laid 
down,  is  that  it  shall  deal  simply  with  simple 
things;  the  second,  which  I  now  postulate,  is  that  it 
shall  have  comic  as  well  as  serious  attributes,  and 
deal  broadly  in  the  stuff  of  simple  humour.  Popular 
audiences  are  insensible  to  wrong  notes.  Scenes 
may  be  played  in  two  or  more  keys  simultane- 
ously, but  so  long  as  all  the  incidents  lie  within 
common  experience  the  audience  will  not  be  dis- 
tressed. It  is  even  essential  that  familiar  tears 
and  familiar  fooling  shall  tread  upon  each  other's 
heels.  The  superiority  of  the  dress-circle  atti- 
tude towards  the  red-nosed  comedian  is  due  to 
the  fact  that  he  jokes  about  subjects  which  do 
not  come  within  the  dress  circles  experience. 
Very  different,  I  imagine,  would  be  the  attitude 
if  he  made  fun  of  things  that  touch  it  nearly — 
the  desire  for  keeping  up  appearances,  the  wear- 
ing of  opera-hats  in  the  Tube.  The  fun  of  melo- 
drama has  just  this  vital  aspect.  Strong  drink 
is  the  admitted  provoker  of  red  noses  ;  the  pawn- 
shop is  as  familiar  as  the  public-house  ;  if  your 
mother-in-law  is  a  nuisance  the  whole  street  is 
ready  to  take  sides.  And  therefore  red  noses, 
the  pawn-shop  and  mothers-in-law  are  the  legiti- 
mate material  of  melodrama. 

The  Bells,  The  Lyons  Mail,  Charles  /.,  Louis 
XT, — all  these  fine  old  plays  could  get  along  by 
sheer  force  of  horror  when  there  was  an  actor 
of  genius  to  hold  them  together.  But  in  these 
punier  times  the  red  nose  is  a  sine  qua  non.     I 

215 


Alarums  and  Excursions 

seem  to  remember  some  very  rollicking  moments 
in  plays  of  the  type  of  The  Sign  of  the  Cross,  a 
front  scene  or  two  of  bibulous  humours  whilst 
the  arena  set  was  being  prepared  behind,  and 
arrangements  made  to  ensure  a  sufficiency  of 
Christians.  The  device,  if  you  remember,  was 
not  scorned  in  Antony  and  Cleopatra.  Of  quite 
recent  melodramas  only  those  have  had  consider- 
able runs  which  have  provided  for  the  broad 
laugh  as  well  as  for  the  easy  tear. 

By  "laughter"  I  mean  an  alternative  to  weep- 
ing. The  actual  guffaw  is  the  best,  but  any 
form  of  relief  will  do.  In  Chu  Chin  Chow  a 
display  of  mannequins  of  which  Mr  Selfridge 
might  be  proud;  in  The  Garden  of  Allah  an 
irrelevant  desert,  complete  with  sand-storm  and 
camels  ;  in  The  Wandering  Jew  a  mysticism  of 
the  servants'  hall ;  in  The  Blue  Lagoon  a  bunch 
of  naked  little  legs  and  arms,  baby  prattle  and 
an  old  sea-dog  h  la  Masterman  Ready.  In  all 
these  plays  the  audience  is  afforded  a  further 
delight  in  the  fond  delusion  that  in  addition 
to  their  evening  out  they  are  improving  their 
minds.  Whereas  mannequins,  sand-storms,  re- 
ligiosity, pink  limbs  and  mind-cultivation  are  all 
our  old  friend,  the  red  nose,  in  different  guise. 
Which  is  very  cunning  on  the  part  of  authors 
and  producers.  Now  let  us  see  what  has  be- 
fallen one  or  two  other  plays  according  as  they 
possessed  or  lacked  this  second  essential  quality. 

Some  time  ago  I  spent  a  week-end  in  the 
little  seaside  town  in  which  Henry  James's  The 
216 


Hippocampelephantocamelos 

American  was  first  submitted  to  an  audience  of 
butter  merchants,  lodging-house  keepers,  shop 
assistants,  clerks — an  average  audience  of  aver- 
age education.  We  know  how  this  play  failed. 
But  this  little  town  has  a  pier,  and  that  pier  has 
a  pavilion,  and  on  that  pier  and  in  that  pavilion 
I  saw  a  similar  audience  completely  carried  away 
by  a  play  which  that  great  author  could  not  have 
found  words  to  condemn. 

It  was  about  the  war,  and  nothing  but  the 
war — its  material  the  tracking  down  of  German 
spies,  escapes  from  German  prison  camps,  the 
return  to  dying  sweethearts  of  lovers  given  up 
for  lost.  There  was  not  a  stock  figure  missing. 
The  dashing  soldier,  the  -heroine  artless  to  im- 
becility, the  German  bully,  the  home  traitor  or 
snake  in  the  grass.  He  who  played  the  hero 
was  the  author  of  the  piece.  Not  in  London  of 
recent  years  have  I  seen  an  actor  so  completely 
in  the  throes  of  an  authentic  passion.  I  am 
not  here  concerned  with  the  "paradox  of  the 
comedian";  I  recount  what  the  actor  persuaded 
the  audience  that  he  felt.  They  were  made  to 
say  :  This  fellow  ha^  seen  and  must  make  us  see 
the  wounded  and  the  dying.  Now  if  the  shop 
assistants  and  hotel  clerks  who  had  themselves 
been  soldiers  had  suspected  playwright  or  actor 
of  trifling,  of  giving  them  an  insincere  grain  of 
this  emotion  and  make-believe  drop  of  that,  they 
would  not  have  been  moved  to  the  extent  they 
were.  But  that  the  actor-author  had  made  war 
the  burning  matter  of  his  play  was  not  the  reason 

217 


Alarums  and  Excursions 

why  it  was  deliriously  acclaimed.  For  that  the 
credit  belonged  entirely  to  the  love  passages 
between  a  Rabelaisian  maid-of-all-work  and  the 
soldiers  billeted  on  her  master.  These  amours 
were  my  red  nose.  The  play  was  a  huge 
success. 

London  had  a  chance  of  welcoming  great  act- 
ing when  Time  to  Wake  Up  was  presented  at  a 
series  of  matinees.  This  little  play  never  went 
into  the  evening  bill ;  I  had  to  follow  it  to 
Croydon.  In  it  that  tender  actress,  Miss  Clare 
Greet,  lavished  the  full  measure  of  her  pathos, 
her  sincerity,  her  common  sense.  She  filled  the 
squat,  dumpy  figure  of  the  Cockney  mother  with 
the  utmost  beauty.  When  she  entered  the 
hospital  ward  where  her  son  lay,  her  attitude 
was  compact  of  trepidation  and  heroic  cheer. 
She  stood  framed  in  the  doorway  a-quiver  with 
maternity,  a  bunched  "body"  of  a  woman, 
sublime  as  Andromache.  And  yet  for  want  of  a 
red  nose  this  play  failed. 

The  author  of  The  Ninth  Earl  knows  his 
theatre  audience  even  better  than  he  knows  his 
theatre.  The  ticklish  part  in  devising  a  play  in 
which  the  hero  is  a  convict  of  fifteen  years'  stand- 
ing is  to  make  sure  that  the  convict  shall  be 
thoroughly  acceptable  to  both  stalls  and  gallery. 
Now  if  there  were  any  likelihood  of  the  stalls 
taking  an  interest  in  a  felon  who  has  become  a 
convict  in  the  ordinary  way  of  business,  and 
being  moved  by  consideration  of  the  brutal- 
ising  effect  of  prison  life  upon  such  a  man,  there 
218 


Hippocampelephantocamelos 

would  have  been  no  need  for  this  play  ;  a  revival 
of  Mr  Galsworthy's  Justice  would  have  done. 
But  the  stalls  are  not  so  interested  ;  to  arouse 
their  emotions  the  convict  must  be  a  nobleman 
of  strictly  non-criminal  caste,  the  victim  of  a 
momentary  impulse  of  passion.  This  is  rank 
snobbery,  if  you  like ;  but  then  there  is  no 
evidence  that  the  people  who  occupy  the  stalls 
are  not  for  the  greater  part  rank  snobs.  Not 
quite  such  snobs,  perhaps,  as  the  poor  folk  up  in 
the  gallery,  who  dearly  love  a  lord  and  who  hate 
to  "  demean  themselves "  by  contemplation  of 
their  own  class  in  trouble.  It  has  been  claimed 
that  for  a  convict  to  be  of  noble  birth  grives  a 
particular  turn  to  a  common  tragedy.  Even  if 
the  point  be  that  the  amenities  of  prison  life 
are  less  tolerable  to  a  lord  than  to  a  labourer, 
it  is  nevertheless  a  snobbish  one.  All  the 
more  reason  why  the  play  should  have  been  a 
tremendous  success. 

It  must  be  heart-rending  for  the  stalls  to  con- 
template an  earl  who  has  so  far  forgotten  his 
manners  as  to  take  a  chop-bone  in  his  fingers  ;  but 
be  sure  that  the  sight  provoked  from  the  gallery 
a  groan  of  even  deeper  anguish.  That  we  are 
one  flesh  and  one  blood  is  so  much  nonsense. 
I  have  no  doubt  that  many  of  those  in  the 
gallery  who  were  most  deeply  afflicted  at  this 
degradation  of  the  mutton  chop  remembered  how 
in  the  early  days  of  the  war  they  had  ladled  out  their 
porridge  with  their  bare  palms  quite  as  a  matter 
of  course.   That  one  of  their  class  should,  through 

219 


Alarums  and  Excursions 

poverty,  forego  the  use  of  spoons,  or,  through 
prison  administration,  have  forgotten  that  use, 
would  not  be  deemed  by  them  matter  for  a  play. 
An  earl  is  a  horse  of  another  colour.  "  Re- 
minded me  of  'ome — it  was  so  bloody  different !  " 
said  the  old  lag  on  his  release  from  gaol,  and  the 
remark  more  or  less  sums  up  the  mental  attitude 
of  the  gallery  towards  a  noble  earl.  They  and 
he  are  different.  I  saw  the  first  act  of  the  play 
from  the  stalls,  and  since  a  play  is  not  to  be 
judged  from  the  best  seats  alone,  climbed  the 
stairs  into  the  gallery  for  the  remainder.  It  was 
a  shock  to  find  that  in  the  higher  latitude  the 
audience  obviously  numbered  more  earls  than 
convicts  amongst  their  acquaintance,  and  so  all 
theories  as  to  plays  about  convicts  for  the  convict 
class  must  remain  theories.^  But  that  is  not  my 
present  point.  From  the  roof  this  particular 
melodrama  seemed  rather  less  real  than  it  did 
from  the  ground  floor.  Seen  in  elevation,  the 
premises  were  steep.  But  the  stairs  were  steeper, 
and  one  got  the  whole  story  spread  beneath  in 
improbable  plan.  Perhaps  it  takes  a  super- 
human actor  to  convince  the  gallery-boy  with 
the  top  of  his  head  and  the  tips  of  his  boots. 
When  the  actors  came  down  to  the  footlights 
nothing  of  them  but  their  extremities  was  visible  ; 
when  they  retreated  up-stage  a  back-cloth  cut 
off  all  but  the  last  button  of  their  waistcoats.      Mr 

'  I  am  aware  that  the  galleries  of  West  End  theatres  are  not  composed  of 
ex-convicts.  It  is  probable,  however,  that  the  majority  of  ex-convicts,  on 
the  rare  occasions  when  they  do  treat  themselves  to  a  West  End  theatre,  do 
not  patronise  the  stalls. 

220 


H ippocampelephantocamelos 

Norman  McKinnel  is  so  good  an  actor,  however, 
that  he  suffered  httle  by  this  foreshortening ; 
even  a  knee-length  of  him  was  thrilHng.  He 
was  very  pathetic  in  his  presentation  of  a  brain 
fallen  into  long  disuse.  His  portrait  of  a  poor 
soul  bereft  of  every  faculty  save  bare  humanity 
roused  the  audience  to  tragic  questionings  and 
justifications,  whereas  the  perseverant  young 
woman,  who  for  fifteen  years  had  kept  up  an 
unanswered  correspondence,  reminded  us  once 
more  that  in  this  sort  of  entertainment  heart- 
searchings  and  justifications  are  a  mistake.  The 
play  was  good  without  being  good  enough  ;  or 
bad  without  being  bad  enough.  It  was  a  com- 
promise between  John  Gabriel  Borkman  and  The 
Ticket  of  Leave  Man  and  it  failed.  The  author 
forgot  about  the  red  nose. 

Neither  gallery  nor  boxes  are  proof  against 
the  lure  of  Red  Indian  and  cowboy.  To  be  of 
a  despised  breed,  to  own  Lone  Wolf  for  father 
and  Laughing  Water  for  mother,  to  be  free  as 
wind  over  the  prairie  and  suffer  contumely  only 
in  contact  with  the  low-class  white,  to  hold  up 
fourteen  armed  dagos  with  your  single  revolver, 
to  be  lassoed  and  strangled,  sentenced  to  death 
and  rescued  in  the  nick  of  time  by  a  devoted 
horse,  to  despise  the  wiles  of  a  Spanish  light-o'- 
love,  to  cherish  a  modest  violet  whom  you  vow 
not  to  marry  until  her  father  shall  come  hat  in 
hand,  which  he  does  at  about  eleven-thirty,  on 
discovery  that  you  are  no  Redskin  but  a  white 
brave  and  a  non-criminal  earl  to  boot — there  is 

221 


Alarums  and  Excursions 

deep  delight  in  all  this.  Such  a  role  is  laid  out 
for  the  actor  as  gratefully  as  an  aria  of  Handel 
for  the  voice.  Enormous  technical  demands  are 
enormously  repaid.  Good,  straightforward  melo- 
dramatic acting  carries  money-lender's  interest. 
Brains  are  not  required  to  surmount  intellectual 
difficulties  or  make  the  crooked  straight.  The 
actor  sees  the  plain  thing  before  him,  sees  it  and 
does  it.  F-i,  fi,  e-r,  er ;  fire  :  p-i-s-t,  pist ;  o-l,  ol  ; 
pistol.  Pire  pistol.  Go  and  do  it — as  Mr  Squeers 
might  have  said.  Mr  Philip  Yale  Drew,  the  cow- 
boy actor  in  The  Savage  and  the  Woman  at  the 
Lyceum,  was  more  than  competent.  He  looked 
virile  and  could  throw  off  a  "mad-scene"  like 
a  prima  donna.  He  showed  himself  a  master  of 
cadenza.  He  was  not  afraid  of  posturing.  At 
the  end  of  an  act  half-a-hundred  revolvers  would 
bore  half-a-hundred  holes  through  his  ribs,  and 
in  the  next  he  would  come  up  with  nothing  but 
a  bandage  round  his  forehead  and  a  smile.  Mr 
Drew  was  the  noble  savage  to  the  life  and  could 
have  had  my  scalp  for  the  asking.  But  what 
made  the  play  a  success  was  not  this  fine  part 
finely  acted,  but  the  presence  of  zany  and  panta- 
loon. The  romantic  passages  and  the  scenes 
between  these  two  lunatic  fools  alternated  as 
regularly  as  the  inspiration  and  exhalation  of  the 
breath.  Zany  was  a  Chinaman  who  knew  no 
American  and  broke  glass  inopportunely  ;  panta- 
loon was  solely  ventripotent.  His  virtue  was 
in  his  belly  ;  which  is  our  friend  the  red  nose  all 
over  again. 

222 


Hippocampelephantocamelos 

We  have  heard  ad  nauseam  that  tragedy  moves 
through  pity  and  terror ;  it  is  not  so  generally 
recognised  that  melodrama  functions  through  pity 
and  fun.  A  wit  once  derived  "gramophone" 
from  two  Greek  words — gramos,  "  I  speak "  ; 
phonos,  "through  a  tin  tube."  I  am  inclined  to 
derive  "melodrama"  from  dramos,  "  I  wring  your 
hearts/'  and  melos,  "by  means  of  my  red  nose." 


223 


For  the  Purposes  of  Revenue 

A  Review  of  some  Commercial  Productions 

The  works  of  most  modern  authors,  like  dead  -  born  children, 
cannot  be  murdered.  It  is  such  wretched,  half-begotten,  half-writ, 
lifeless,  spiritless,  low,  grovelling  stufif,  that  I  almost  pity  the  actor 
who  is  obliged  to  get  it  by  heart. 

The  town,  like  a  peevish  child,  knows  not  what  it  desires,  and  is 
always  best  pleased  with  a  rattle. 

Joseph  Andrews. 

^^\NE  Night  in  Rome. — Miss  Laurette  Taylor 
I  J  should  be  impeached  for  having  won 
V-^  our  loves  by  incomplete  pretence,  or 
in  the  alternative,  for  concealment  of  the  art 
which  is  within  her.  In  Peg  o  My  Heart  this 
golden  little  lady  conquered  every  bosom  of  the 
town,  by  as  flat  sorcery  as  ever  was  committed 
had  sentimental  London  at  her  feet.  To  chide 
her  had  been  unkind,  to  praise  her  impertinent. 
Either  you  were  ensnared  or  you  weren't,  and  in 
neither  case  was  it  the  affair  of  the  critic.  In 
One  Night  in  Rome  Miss  Taylor  tries  for  some- 
thing more  than  a  success  of  endearment,  in 
which  she  very  nearly  succeeds  in  spite  of  a 
darkened  stage,  a  darkened  head  of  hair,  a  sombre 
Italian  accent,  a  darkling  apparatus  of  bamboozle- 
dom,  and  the  obligation  to  croak  at  intervals 
a  raven-like  "  Che  sarh,  sarh.''  What  will  be,  will 
be  indeed.  It  may  be  that  this  actress  is  about 
to  achieve  greatness.  There  were  many  moments 
when  she  knocked  at  the  door  of  great  acting 
only  to  find  it  locked  and  barred  by  a  baffling 
and  exasperating  play.  Imagine  Hamlet  without 
the  Ghost,  the  Dane  peevish,  and  the  audience 
ignorant  of  the  cause  of  his  fretting.  Imagine 
224 


For  the  Purposes  of  Revenue 

him  dispatching  Claudius,  and  after  the  poison  has 
got  to  work  hastily  throwing  off  the  whole  story, 
beginning  with  "  Sleeping  within  mine  orchard." 

Conceive  all  this,  and  you  have  some  idea  of 
the  handicap  which  Mr  Hardey  Manners  imposes 
on  his  heroine.  For  three  sad  hours  was  Miss 
Taylor  condemned  to  bat-like  and  Sybilline 
mystification.  But  they  seemed  not  an  hour,  so 
skilfully  did  she  beguile  the  time  in  pretending 
to  be  other  than  her  natural  self.  Wave  after 
wave  of  mystification  buffeted  us  about  until  at 
last  the  dam  burst  and  the  waters  of  explication 
were  let  loose.  And  what  a  flood  it  was — the 
matter  of  Ibsen  and  the  manner  of  Catulle 
Mendes !  The  actress's  art,  which  had  battled 
so  bravely  in  the  tumbling  waters,  foundered 
here.  She  had  not  a  sufficiency  of  tragic  com- 
mand ;  she  "  ran  on  "  as  they  say  ;  she  reeled  off 
the  farrago  of  absurdity  as  though  she  mistrusted 
it.  "Reeled  off" — that's  the  phrase.  Mr 
Manners  has  written  an  excellent  drama  for  the 
screen.  "  L'Enigme,"  the  palmist's  pseudonym, 
strikes  the  very  note  in  the  way  of  titles  ;  it 
makes  thick  the  blood,  is  the  veil  for  such 
innocency  presently  to  be  revealed  as  was  never 
seen  even  in  American  backwoods.  One  night 
in  Rome  !  Think  of  the  extraneous  possibilities. 
Think  of  the  views  of  the  old  place,  the  turbulent 
Tiber,  crowded  Colosseum,  and  "  a  glimpse  of  the 
distant  Parthenon."  Since  we  are  told  of  the 
suicide  of  "  L'Enigme's"  husband  that  at  Milan 
they  turned  it  into  a  play  and  at  Paris  into  a 
p  225 


Alarums  and  Excursions 

novel,  imagine  the  crowds,  carnivals,  and  hulla- 
baloos at  the  opera  !  Think  of  the  sub-titles,  Che 
sar^,  sard !  Lasciate  ogni  speranza,  and  all  the 
other  old  tags!  Think  of  the  "close-up"  when 
the  dam  finally  gives  way,  the  present  dissolving 
into  the  familiar  dream-past !  Let  Mr  Manners 
translate  this  chef  d'ceuvre  manqui  into  its  proper 
sphere  and  "release"  Miss  Taylor  for  material 
worthier  of  what  she  has  now  shown  to  be  her 
scope.  I  am  inclined  to  think  that  the  actress 
could  invest  a  lump  of  reinforced  concrete  with 
charm.  Who  that  only  knew  her  as  Peg  would 
have  credited  her  with  such  an  achievement  as 
her  broken  English  ?  Essays  of  our  native  actor 
in  that  line  bear  chiefly  witness  to  his  being 
"a  Cockney  in  'is  'eart."  Miss  Taylor  did  not 
content  herself  with  mere  verbal  derangements  ; 
she  phrased  as  a  foreigner  phrases,  endowed  an 
English  form  of  words  with  alien  rhythm.  Her 
pronunciation  was  nearly  perfect,  her  intonation 
magnificently  at  sea.  It  was  hardly  the  actress's 
fault  that  the  break-neck  confession  failed  to 
come  off.  No  artist  could  have  weathered  such 
an  enormity  in  pathetic  circumstance  as  "  He  was 
not  in  financial  difficulties."  It  was  as  though 
Hamlet  were  expiringly  to  say  :  "  The  potent 
poison  quite  o'ercrows  my  spirit,  but  remember, 
Horatio,  my  uncle  was  fully  able  to  meet  his 
liabilities." 

A  Southern  Maid. — "  All  literature  is  good 
literature,  except  the  tedious."  But  with  the 
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For  the  Purposes  of  Revenue 

rapturous  success  of  A  Southern  Maid  before 
him  I  imagine  Voltaire  had  included  the  tedious. 
Some  parts  of  this  play  are  dull,  others  are 
duller.  The  book  is  the  very  funeral  of  wit. 
"A  good  wit  will  make  use  of  anything  ;  I  will 
turn  diseases  to  commodity,"  roared  Falstaff, 
and  I  think  he  might  have  made  something  of 
that  modern  ailment,  musical  comedy.  The  wit 
of  Messrs  Dion  Clayton  Calthrop  and  Harry 
Graham  scarcely  fuses  to  flame ;  singly  each 
shows  a  bright  little  spark,  together  they  gutter 
like  a  candle.  They  burden  themselves  with 
a  plot  which,  like  the  body  of  Sir  John,  is 
"  blasted  with  antiquity."  They  seek  to  enliven 
the  old  thing  with  one  Francesco  del  Fuego. 
This  new  Pistol  swears  by  "socks  and  sub- 
marines, macaroni  and  mudguards,  dogs'  teeth 
and  dynasties."  These  are  bitter  words,  but 
the  trouble  is  that  they  are  not  particularly 
funny.  All  the  world  knows  that  wit  consists 
in  finding  striking  and  unexpected  resemblances 
in  things  widely  different.  But  the  meanest 
member  of  the  audience  can  see  the  difference 
between  socks  and  submarines,  and  the  resem- 
blance in  which  lies  the  wit  of  coupling  them 
together  is  far  to  seek.  As  between  the  present 
play  and  its  predecessor.  The  Maid  of  the 
Mountains,  there  is  plenty  of  resemblance  but 
no  essential  difference.  This  time  the  manage- 
ment has  co-opted  Mr  Oscar  Asche,  and  hence 
it  is  that  in  vSantiago  as  in  Bagdad  gold  fins 
wink    in     porphyry    fonts,    fire-flies    waken    and 

227 


Alarums  and  Excursions 

milk-white  peacocks  droop  like  glimmering 
ghosts.  Only  this  particular  peacock  happens 
to  be  a  donkey.  These  Southern  maids  are 
fair  in  the  fearless  old  fashion,  and  Miss  Jose 
Collins  gives  us  as  much  of  the  Tuscan  and 
Greek  as  could  be  considered  good  form  in 
this  chillsome  island.  She  realises  the  pre- 
posterousness  of  her  part  too  nicely  to  be  serious 
over  such  matters  as  the  slaying  of  a  sweetheart. 
And  therefore  she  says  :  "And  so  I  am  to  kill 
him  "  with  exactly  the  emotion  she  would  have 
used  for  "And  so  I  am  to  pick  his  pockets." 
She  is  gorgeously  caparisoned  and  so  stupend- 
ously made-up  that  it  is  difficult  to  tell  what 
her  dramatic  range  may  be.  There  is  hardly 
anybody  else  in  the  play.  The  comedians  were 
like  that  French  actor  who,  after  being  awarded 
the  first  prize  for  comedy  at  the  Theatre 
Fran9ais,  retired  to  make  his  fortune  in  the 
pompes  funebres.  Delete  Miss  Collins  and  you 
unpeople  Daly's. 

"  The  stalls  sit  purring  like  a  catshow  charmed, 
With  extra  cream  or  chin  adroitly  scratched  ; 
And  women  from  the  boxes  lean  and  listen 
Like  cows  across  a  gate  at  milking-time  " 

wrote  Davidson.  Surely  an  admirable  picture 
of  this  house  ! 

A  Marriage  of  Convenience. — Like  that  Ameri- 
can critic  who  said  with  reference  to  Hamlet 
that  he  did  not  care  for  the  imported  drama,, 
228 


For  the  Purposes  of  Revenue 

I  do  not  care  for  adaptations.  At  least,  not  for 
some  recent  ones.  First  Miss  Marie  Lohr  with 
that  spindle-shanked  French  antique,  A  Marriage 
of  Convenience.  What  a  plot !  Who  can  imagine 
an  audience  caring  whether  Candale  and  his 
noble  goose  are  happy  or  miserable  ?  Consider 
the  quality  of  the  wit !  "  You're  always  buzzing 
about !  "  exclaims  the  Chevalier  de  Valclos  with 
characteristic  1750  elegance.  "I  am  terribly 
inquisitive,"  said  the  Countess.  "That  is  to  say 
that  you  are  a  woman,"  replies  the  Chevalier. 
Nobody  could  have  made  much  more  of  the 
little  ninny  than  did  Miss  Lohr.  But  neither 
could  anybody  have  made  much  less,  Mr  Faber 
faded  to  nothingness  as  Candale  and  Mr  Dawson 
Milward  contented  himself  with  looking  like  Le 
Roi  Soleil  after  eating  one  of  Alice's  biscuits. 
But  my  heart  went  out  unreservedly  to  Mr  Lauri 
de  Frece,  with  his  George  Alexander  cast  of 
countenance  and  the  Robeyish  break  in  the 
voice.  He  was  the  only  live  person  in  the  play. 
And  why  did  everybody  pronounce  the  word 
"cerise"  as  though  it  were  written  "  cerisse"  ? 
Dressmakers  and  jockeys  may  have  a  pronuncia- 
tion of  their  own,  but  they  do  not  constitute  an 
academy. 

The  Mystery  of  the  Yellow  Room. — Next,  Miss 
Daisy  Markham  with  a  tame  version  of  a  French 
detective  story.  There  is  in  The  Mystery  of  the 
Yellow  Room  an  intolerable  deal  of  complication 
to  a  very  poor  halfpennyworth  of  solution.     Lord, 

229 


Alarums  and  Excursions 

what  tangled  webs  these  playwrights  weave, 
when  first  they  practise  to  deceive  !  What  knots 
they  tie  everybody  up  in,  themselves  included  !  Mr 
Hannaford  Bennett  invokes  a  familiar  apparatus 
of  blasts  from  hell  and  goblins  damned,  whinings 
and  whimperings  in  comparison  with  which 
banshees  and  werewolves  pale  their  ineffectual 
howls.  But  these  are  ghosts  which  may  be  laid 
with  a  revolver,  and  their  other-worldly  mani- 
festations are  explained  away  as  signals.  But 
what  particular  need  a  single-handed  villain  has 
to  signal  to  himself  is  not  clear.  He  collapses 
in  a  trial  scene  again  reminiscent  of  Alice.  There 
had  been  a  room  without  means  of  exit  and  a 
man  supposed  to  be  shut  up  in  it,  which  all  the 
time  he  wasn't.  For  when  they  got  there  the 
cupboard  was  bare. 

"You  could  not  see  a  cloud,  because 
No  cloud  was  in  the  sky  ; 
No  birds  were  flying  overhead — 
There  were  no  birds  to  fly" 

wrote  Lewis  Carrol.     So  in  this  play 

"The  littlest  lark  that  soars  above 
No  cage  had  here  espied  ; 
And  locks  and  bars  are  foolishness — 
.    When  Dickey's  not  inside." 

Georges  Sand. — After  Miss  Markham,  Mrs 
Patrick  Campbell  in  an  American  play.  If  I  am 
angry  with  this  lady's  performance  in  Georges  Sand 
it  is  with   the  anger  of  idolatry  which  hurts  the 

230 


For  the  Purposes  of  Revenue 

idolater  more  than  it  wounds  the  idol.  I  will 
not  look  unprotestingly  on  whilst  she  who  might 
be  the  greatest  English  actress  of  the  present 
day  makes  a  mockery  of  herself,  gores  her  own 
thoughts,  holds  cheap  that  art  which  others  have 
held  most  dear.  I  have  no  objection  to  the 
wearing^  of  trousers  and  the  smokino;  of  cigfars  on 
the  part  of  Georges  Sand,  the  actress  who  shall 
impersonate  her,  or  any  other  woman.  All  that 
can  be  said  about  these  things  is  that  they  do  not 
matter.  That  not  undiscerning  writer,  Balzac, 
wrote  a  novel  about  the  lady  without  mention 
of  these  insignificant  details.  But  he  recounts 
how  she  boasted  of  having  finished  a  novel  at 
four  o'clock  in  the  morning.  "  And  what,  pray, 
did  you  do  then,  madam  ?"  "I  began  another," 
replied  the  indefatigable,  humourless  scribe. 
Georges  Sand  had  any  amount  of  romantic 
passion  and  genius,  but  she  could  be  flat-footed 
and  wearisome.  Balzac,  whom  she  bored,  yet 
recognised  her  great  spirit,  and  wrote  of  her 
with  respect  untouched  with  irony. 

And  here  comes  Mr  Moeller  with  his  tongue 
not  even  in  his  cheek,  but  rudely  protuberant. 
History  records  of  his  heroine  that  she  was 
taciturnity  itself  and  would  sit  for  hours  together 
without  a  word,  devouring  her  lovers  with  her 
sad  and  sombre  eyes.  Mr  Moeller  makes  her 
talk.  Heavens,  how  she  talks  !  Spates,  torrents, 
floodgates,  there  is  no  simile  which  shall  fit  the 
trivial,  pseudo-heroic  gabble.  She  takes  notes 
from  her  outpourings  as  shamelessly  as  a  modern 

231 


Alarums  and  Excursions 

journalist.  A  phrase  strikes  her — some  cliche 
about  sunburnt  cathedrals  or  music  wooing  the 
stars — and  meet  it  is  she  sets  it  down.  And  this 
she  does  fifty  times.  History  records  that  the 
novelist  was  for  a  period  on  the  staff  of  the 
Figaro,  but  that  as  she  had  neither  wit  nor 
piquancy  her  earnings  at  the  end  of  the  month 
did  not  amount  to  more  than  fifteen  francs.  But 
the  Georges  Sand  of  this  play  is  a  gossip  to  the 
manner  born.  She  could  have  turned  out  her 
column  of  chit-chat  twice  a  day.  She  would  not 
have  been  racy  but  cheap,  not  witty  but  smart, 
not  wise  but  knowing,  and  would  have  made  our 
best  paragraphists  look  to  their  laurels.  And 
then  her  lovers !  Musset  has  a  scene  of  eaves- 
dropping which  recalls  Mr  Pickwick's  adventure 
at  Ipswich  with  the  middle-aged  lady  in  the 
curl-papers.  Pagello  is  a  dolt,  Heine  a  boor, 
Liszt  a  marionette,  Chopin  a  walking  tubercle. 
What  kindness  did  Jules  Sandeau  and  Prosper 
M^rim^e  to  Mr  Moeller's  ancestors  that  they  are 
spared  ? 

Into  this  welter  of  nonsense  comes  Mrs  Patrick 
Campbell  like  some  Spanish  galleon  in  full  sail. 
Without  her  the  play  had  been  unthinkable  ; 
with  her  it  is  amusing,  but  at  what  cost!  Not 
even  so  bitter  a  wit  as  hers  can  parody  the  merely 
futile.  Wit  must  have  matter,  and  so  she  rends 
and  mauls  herself,  her  personality,  her  art.  She 
consents  to  a  costume  which  miorht  have  been 
worn  by  Little  Lord  Fauntleroy  or  Archibald 
Grosvenor.  She  passes  in  the  same  breath  from 
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For  the  Purposes  of  Revenue 

the  hysteria  of  the  exaltde  to  soHcitude  for  her 
second-best  trousers.  She  will  catch  you  with 
her  unerring  beauty  and  kill  your  admiration 
with  a  phrase.  There  were  the  old  turns  of  the 
head,  the  familiar  sweep  of  the  rounded  throat,  the 
old  extravagance  of  haunting  gesture,  arresting 
line,  ineffable  pose.  There  were  the  old  tones  of 
pleading  and  resentment,  the  sweet  that  almost 
bitter  is,  the  aching  loveliness,  and  all  in  the 
service  of  derision.  The  most  tragic  thing  in 
the  world,  says  Mr  Shaw  somewhere,  is  a  man 
of  genius  who  is  not  also  a  man  of  honour.  But 
I  must  think  that  an  even  more  traoric  thinsf  is  an 
actress  of  genius  who  makes  a  mock  of  her  art. 

Tiger !  Tiger ! — Now  comes  Mr  Bourchier  with 
another  American  drama.  Tiger!  Tiger!  is  rank 
with  the  snobbishness  of  a  republican  country. 
The  "tiger"  is  that  passion  which  ravages  a 
man  for  two  years  and  a  half,  but  ceases  to  tease 
him  when  its  object  turns  out  to  be  a  domestic 
servant.  Can  he  who  made  the  Member  of 
Parliament  also  make  the  cook  ?  There  was  no 
getting  away  from  the  fact  that  Sally  was  a  cook. 
As  a  maid  she  thought  like  a  cook,  talked  like  a 
cook,  and  looked  like  a  cook  ;  as  mistress  to  the 
M.P.  she  could  not  put  away  cookish  things. 
Tiger,  said  Fielding,  can  make  a  molehill  appear 
as  a  mountain,  a  jews'  harp  sound  like  a  trumpet, 
and  a  daisy  smell  like  a  violet.  But  in  Mr 
Knoblock's  play  this  tiger  noses  the  smell  of 
cabbage   under   the  scent  of  patchouli.      It  is  a 

233 


Alarums  and  Excursions 

very  dreadful  and  common  play.  When  the 
M.P.  discovers  that  his  mistress  is  a  cook  he 
discovers  something  that  is  not  of  the  slightest 
importance.  That  she  should  have  a  cook's 
mind  is  the  thing  that  matters.  Suppose  the 
girl  had  a  fine  spirit  in  a  cook's  body.  Suppose 
the  hero  had  continued  to  love  her,  well  knowing 
her  to  be  a  cook.  Suppose  that  being  an  M.P., 
and  therefore  presumably  a  man  of  some  educa- 
tion, he  had  looked  up  The  New  Machiavelli 
for  the  proper  moves  in  the  "  world  well  lost " 
gambit  for  statesmen.  Suppose  he  had  sacri- 
ficed his  career  for  her.  Suppose  anything  you 
like,  but  do  not  suppose  that  we  can  take  kindly 
to  a  hero  when  it  turns  out  that  it  is  he  who 
has  a  kitchen  mind.  Miss  Kyrle  Bellew's  Sally 
was  a  depressing  performance.  The  actress 
conceived  the  cook  as  a  rapt  and  rather  dull 
Madonna,  and  she  was  careful  to  write  nothing 
on  a  mystical  and  woebegone  countenance.  Miss 
Bellew  hardly  addressed  a  single  word  to  any- 
body on  the  stage  throughout  the  whole  evening. 
She  stood  four-square  to  the  audience,  and  even 
her  replies  to  her  lover  were  addressed  to  them. 
That  good  actor,  Mr  Leon  Quartermaine,  played 
the  poltroon  according  to  his  deserts,  and  Miss 
Stella  Mervyn- Campbell  gave  chastity  a  more 
haorp-ard,  chillsome  and  forbiddino;  air  than  even 
that  cold  virtue  calls  for. 

Fedora. — Fedora  is  yet  another  hoary  adapta- 
tion.     It  is  difficult  to  understand  the  intellectual's 

234 


For  the  Purposes  of  Revenue 

stern  dislike  of  the  well-made  play.  All  the 
world's  best  plays  have  been  well  made,  even  if 
Hamlet  seems  at  first  sight  untidy  and  sprawling 
like  some  overgrown  cathedral.  Architecture  in 
the  theatre  calls  for  genius,  whilst  even  carpentry 
demands  talent  ;  and  perhaps  what  really  puts 
clever  people's  backs  up  is  the  amount  of  talent 
they  conceive  as  running  to  waste  when  an 
author  like  Sardou,  with  nothing  to  say,  says  it 
supremely  well.  The  second  count  in  the  indict- 
ment is  to  the  effect  that  the  thing  is  theatrical. 
From  which  it  follows  that  plays  written  for  the 
theatre  should  be  badly  written  and  non-theatrical. 
A  Chestertonian  proposition  with  which  not  even 
Mr  Chesterton  would  ag-ree.  What  the  intel- 
lectual  folk  are  after  is  that  plays  shall  concern 
themselves  with  real  people,  and  the  theatre,  if 
need  be,  go  hang.  As  a  moderate  and  temperate 
critic  I  disagree  with  the  utmost  violence.  The 
first  condition  of  a  play  is  that  it  shall  be  a 
thing  of  the  theatre.  To  be  a  great  play  it  must 
deal  with  real  people,  but  conversely  if  it  deals 
with  real  people  and  is  not  theatrical  it  won't  be 
a  play  at  all. 

Modern  playwriting  may  be  divided  in  order 
of  virtue  into  four  categories,  {a)  The  theatrical 
play  about  real  people.  Let  me  roughly  instance 
Hedda  Gabler,  Monna  Vanna,  La  Gioconda,  La 
Vierge  Folle,  The  Cherry  Orchard,  Magda,  Iris, 
Riders  to  the  Sea,  Mary  Broome,  Strife,  The 
Widowing  of  Mrs  Holroyd,  and  four-fifths  of 
I'he  Doctor's  Dilemma,     (h)  The  theatrical  play 


Alarums  and  Excursions 

about  unreal  people.  See  FMora.  (c)  The  non- 
theatrical  play  about  real  people,  of  which  Man 
and  Superman  is  a  supreme  example,  {d)  The 
non-theatrical  play  about  unreal  people.  For 
this  see  any  London  theatre  addicted  to  light 
comedy  or  the  Repertory  Theatres  when  they 
unbend.  Now  note  how  high  up  Fedora  is  on 
such  a  list. 

Unfortunately  the  fact  that  Fedora  is  a  good  play 
is  no  reason  why  Miss  Marie  Lohr  should  have 
tackled  it.  Even  if  we  forget  another  personality, 
we  cannot  pretend  that  tragic,  or  melodramatic, 
or  any  extravagant  power  of  emotion  whatever 
exists  in  Miss  Lohr.  In  the  great  actors  what  is 
called  power  is  merely  a  small  cheque  drawn  upon 
an  inexhaustible  balance.  Power  is  merely  the 
manifestation  of  the  volcano  and  not  the  volcano 
itself,  the  surface-swell  and  not  the  sea.  Salvini, 
at  his  most  tremendous,  was  never  so  terrible 
as  you  felt  he  might  easily  become.  Whereas 
Miss  Lohr  goes  all  out,  and  in  so  doing  squanders 
the  storm.  She  has  no  reserves,  and  we  perceive 
that  all  along  there  has  been  nothing  to  reserve. 
It  is  not  that  the  performance  is  not  clever.  It 
is,  and  that's  the  pity  of  it.  It  is  a  pity  to  see  a 
charming  young  lady,  whose  talent  is  as  English 
as  a  rectory  lawn,  attempt  the  ebullitions  of 
a  foreign  virago — and  Fedora  wasn't  more  than 
that.  It  is  vain  for  Rydal  Water  to  try  to  lash 
itself  into  an  imitation  of  the  big  ocean.  It  is  a 
pity  to  see  that  round,  smiling,  childish  face  dis- 
torted, oh  so  cleverly  and  meaninglessly  distorted, 
236 


For  the  Purposes  of  Revenue 

the  mouth  pulled  this  way  and  that,  in  strenuous 
imitation  of  what  the  great  actors  do  in  their 
authentic  passion.  "She's  so  bright!"  says  the 
Countess  Olga,  of  Fedora.  And  no  better 
criticism  of  Miss  Lohr's  definitely  pleasant  talent 
has  ever  been  devised.  Miss  Ellis  Jeffreys  has 
much  of  Mrs  Kendal's  quality  of  Victorian  staid- 
ness,  with  an  embroidery  of  gaiety  which  is  her 
own,  and  perfectly  English.  She  an  artist  of 
understanding,  accomplishes  exactly  what  she 
sets  out  to  accomplish,  and  is  one  of  the  few 
actresses  left  to  us  who  can  play  a  woman  of 
breeding.  Mr  Allan  Aynesworth  is  altogether 
jolly  as  a  bluff  and  breezy  de  Siriex  from  the 
shires,  and  Mr  Basil  Rathbone's  Ipanoff  would 
be  perfectly  at  home  on  the  centre  court  at 
Wimbledon  or  reading  for  the  Bar.  Even  Tree 
was  better.  But  there,  these  nice  English  people 
can't  expect  to  become  nasty  Russians  merely  by 
pulling  faces. 

The  Garden  oj  Allah. — Mr  Robert  Hichens  is 
to  be  congratulated  upon  having  got  the  feel  of 
the  sand  across  the  footlights.  The  Garden  of 
Allah  very  nearly  comes  off,  there  being  nothing 
between  it  and  success  except  the  desert.  The 
divertissement  in  the  middle  very  nearly  comes 
off  too,  there  being  nothing  between  it  and 
triumph  except  the  play.  But  was  there  not 
once  a  French  critic  who  wrote  after  the  first 
performance  of  Goethe's  Egniont :  "  Musique  de 
Beethoven.      Helas !      Pourquoi    y    en-a-t-il    si 

237 


Alarums  and  Excursions 

peu !  "  Why  such  niggardly  fauna  ?  Could 
not  Mr  Collins  do  better  than  mules  (2),  donkeys 
(5),  goats  (7),  sheep  (4),  camels  (3),  calf  at  foot  ( i ), 
horses  (2),  gazelle  (i  dead)?  Strange  that  pro- 
ducers will  not  realise  that  on  the  stage  nothing  is 
so  unreal  as  the  real.  There  is  a  fall  of  real  water 
in  The  Garden  of  Allah,  but  all  its  effect  is  to 
annoy  like  an  unruly  bathroom  tap.  The  thing 
which  ruins  the  play  in  the  dramatic  sense — and 
makes  it  in  the  commercial — Is  the  importunate 
desert,  sucking  up  action  and  interest  like  some 
gigantic  piece  of  blotting-paper. 

There  is  one  glory  of  verse  and  another  of 
prose,  but  I  am  reluctant  to  think  that  there  is 
yet  a  third  of  camels.  These  ever-recurring 
ruminants,  with  their  obstructive  habitat,  did  too 
much  damage  to  too  good  a  play.  For  The 
Garden  of  Allah  is  not  entirely  a  foolish  play. 
It  has  a  theme,  the  sort  of  theme  a  French 
dramatist  will  hammer  to  a  conclusion  without 
the  aid  of  any  menagerie,  but  by  means  of  four 
actors,  four  chairs,  a  four-square  argument  and 
four  hours  by  the  clock.  Is  it  reasonable,  such  a 
dramatist  will  ask,  to  demand  of  a  full-blooded 
human  being  that  he  become  a  monk  ?  And  the 
monk  having  discovered  his  moral  and  physical 
incompatibility,  is  there  any  conceivable  use  in 
his  remaining  a  monk?  And  when  he  has 
broken  barracks  and  is  to  become  a  father,  is 
any  religious  end  served  by  re-immuring  him 
and  leaving  the  young  woman  in  the  lurch?  Is 
there  any  Christian  sense  in  this  letch  for  chastity  ? 
238 


For  the  Purposes  of  Revenue 

Half  of  the  Frenchman's  audience  will  say  "  Yes  " 
and  the  other  half  will  say  "  No."  And  this  it 
is  which  makes  for  a  fine,  clashing  play  of  the 
theatre. 

But  do  not  imagine  that  Mr  Hichens  puts  his 
case  as  cold-bloodedly  as  this.  Do  not  imagine 
that  he  puts  it  at  all.  True  that  he  makes  his 
young  man  terrifically  rehearse  the  greater  part 
of  the  temptations  of  St  Anthony.  True  that  he 
makes  him  explain  with  much  circumstance  that 
man  was  not  meant  to  live  alone.  But  he  shrouds 
his  characters  in  portentousness,  in  a  beating 
about  the  bush  unexampled  in  my  recollection,  in 
a  complete  inability  to  see  an  inch  before  their 
noses.  The  intellectual  interest  of  the  drama  is 
contained  in  the  question:  "What  should  the 
monk  do  ?  "  But  the  whole  interest  of  the  spec- 
tator lies  in  wondering  how  much  longer  the  stupid 
people  on  the  stage  are  going  to  take  to  find 
out  that  the  man  of  mystery  is  a  monk.  They 
are  an  unconscionable  time  "tumbling,"  as  the 
phrase  goes.  It  had  long  been  obvious  to  the 
spectator  that  the  picturesque  Russian  must  be 
an  escaped  Trappist ;  he  looked  too  like  a  miner 
on  strike  to  be  anything  else.  Only  an  escaped 
Trappist  would  say:  "  I  want  to  stretch  my  limbs 
and  get  a  shot  if  I  can,"  in  the  same  tone  in  which 
he  would  read  the  Burial  Service  over  his  Abbot. 
Would  any  but  a  renegade  monk  imagine  a 
woman  like  Miss  Titheradge  capable  of  putting 
up  for  life  with  an  oasis,  a  diet  of  dates,  and  a 
stud    of    camels    how    numerous    and    charming 

239 


Alarums  and  Excursions 

soever?  It  is  only  fair  to  say  that  the  audience 
brought  to  this  play  of  religiosity  the  ecstasy  of 
a  Revivalist  orgy.  They  succeeded,  as  Hazlitt 
says,  "in  gaining  a  vertigo  by  the  abandonment 
of  their  reason." 

The  only  two  parts  that  matter  are  Mr  Godfrey 
Tearle's  and  Miss  Madge  Titheradge's.  Listen 
to  the  rise  and  fall  of  Mr  Tearle's  beautiful  voice, 
watch  the  nobility  of  his  gestures,  and  you  see 
a  fine  actor  in  the  making.  Miss  Titheradge 
used  her  exquisite  voice  exquisitely  and  listened 
admirably.  How  spiritedly  they  both  got  off  the 
mark  and,  jumping  straight  into  their  strides, 
would  hardly  let  each  other  speak  for  more 
than  twenty  minutes  without  interruption  !  The 
camels  were  coming,  alas !  alas !  and  they  were 
anxious  to  get  their  human  say  in  whilst  human 
speech  remained  of  interest.  But  the  camels 
won  in  the  end.  After  Mr  Tearle's  really 
magnificent  tirade  a  young  exquisite  in  the 
foyer  was  overheard  to  say  :  "  Dashed  thirsty 
job  that  fellah's  got,  what?"  That's  the  worst 
of  your  desert ;  it  destroys  the  actor  utterly. 
Poor  Mr  Tearle  and  poor  Miss  Titheradge ! 
I  imagine  that  at  the  first  rehearsal  they  must 
have 

Wept  like  anything  to  see 
Such  quantities  of  sand. 

Daddalums. — Daddalums  !  "  Melancholy  tri- 
syllable of  sound,  unison  to  Nincompoop  and  every 
240 


For  the  Purposes  of  Revenue 

name  vituperative  under  heaven."  Would  not 
Mr  Shandy  have  demanded  whether  we  had  ever 
remembered,  whether  we  had  ever  read,  or  even 
whether  we  had  ever  heard  tell  of  a  man  called 
Daddalums  performing  anything  great  or  worth 
recording  ?  What's  in  a  name  ?  A  good  deal 
in  real  life,  and  everything  on  the  stage.  Dad- 
dalums is  a  feeble  little  play,  but  at  least  it  does 
honestly  according  to  its  lights,  and  should  not 
be  handicapped  at  birth.  It  does  not  propound 
one  problem  and  solve  another.  It  is  a  straight- 
forward and  sincere  little  essay  on  prodigal 
fathers,  and  has  given  London  a  chance  to  see 
once  more  that  ever-delightful  Mr  Ernest 
Hendrie,  the  careful  and  conscientious  Miss 
Edyth  Olive,  and  that  great  and  noble  actor,  Mr 
Louis  Calvert.  You  see  in  this  unshaven,  loose- 
braced,  gibbous-membered  shoemaker  plentiful 
traces  of  the  grand  tradition  of  classical  acting. 
It  is  all  kept  wonderfully  to  key,  and  the  subdued 
yet  resonant  "  If  I  had  a  million  knees  I'd  go 
down  on  every  one  of  them,"  is  full  of  the  true 
joy  of  the  theatre.  It  is  the  havering  of  a  loose- 
witted  pantaloon,  but  it  is  kin  to  the  great 
utterances  of  Lear. 

French  Leave. — Mr  Berkeley  amuses  himself  in 
French  Leave  by  imagining  what  might  have 
happened  if  the  fascinating  wife  of  a  jealous 
Brigade-Major  had  found  her  way  to  the  mess- 
room  of  a  brigade  resting  out  of  the  Line.  It  is 
all  machine-made,  but  the  play  is  saved  by  a 
Q  241 


Alarums  and  Excursions 

magnificent  piece  of  comic  acting  by  Mr  M.  R. 
Morand.  Those  who  have  experience  of  elderly 
brigadiers  will  not  fail  to  recognise  the  choler, 
punctiliousness  and  childlike  innocence  of  matters 
other  than  professional.  It  is  a  wonderful  por- 
trait. The  old  boy's  face  glows  like  a  lanthorn. 
It  radiates  foolishness.  Ghosts  of  feeble  ideas 
flicker  across  his  countenance  to  be  absorbed  in 
the  self-sufficiency  of  the  martinet.  His  point- 
less, senile  gallantry,  the  raking-together  of  the 
embers  of  youth  are  splendidly  done.  For  his 
model  the  actor  has  seized  with  fiendish  glee 
upon  the  present-day  successor  to  the  antiquated 
colonel  in  Patience,  and  perhaps  he  has  also  read 
that  astonishing  French  comment  upon  our 
distinguished  soldiers,  Les  Silences  du  Colonel 
Bramble.  Miss  Ren^e  Kelly's  broken  English 
was  rather  staggering.  She  pretended  to  be  a 
Frenchwoman  trying  to  talk  our  language, 
whereas  nothing  was  ever  more  like  an  English- 
woman trying  to  talk  theirs,  and  succeeding  very 
prettily. 

At  the  Villa  Rose. — ^Brevity  is  the  soul  of  other 
things  than  wit.  It  is  the  soul  of  the  dramatic 
thrill,  for  example.  At  the  Villa  Rose  is  a  dull 
shocker.  The  author  takes  up  the  whole  of  a 
very  long  first  act  to  tell  the  audience  that  an  old 
lady  is  a  dabbler  in  spiritualism,  that  her  maid 
wants  to  murder  her  for  her  jewels,  and  that  it  is 
going  to  be  done  during  a  seance.  As  the  pre- 
paratory quarters  of  an  hour  succeeded  each 
242 


For  the  Purposes  of  Revenue 

other  and  drao'o'ed  their  slow  lencrths  alon^-  "  the 
suspense  of  the  author  became  unbearable." 
Mr  A.  E.  W.  Mason  must  have  groaned  in 
agony  for  a  full  hour  before  allowing  anything 
to  happen  in  his  play.  And  then  how  bad  the 
acting !  First  there  is  Mr  Arthur  Bourchier, 
breezy,  genial,  the  English  country  gentleman  all 
over,  and  never  for  one  second  getting  near  the 
temperament  or  mentality  of  a  Frenchman.  That 
Mr  Bourchier  is  a  great  actor  and  can  play  a 
Frenchman  those  who  remember  him  in  The  Red 
Rohe  will  know.  But  nowadays  he  no  longer 
condescends  to  act.  He  is  on  the  stao^e  with  his 
company,  but  he  is  in  no  sense  of  them.  He 
pays  only  superficial  heed  to  what  is  being  said 
and  done  about  him.  His  attention  is  concen- 
trated on  the  wrong  side  of  the  footlights.  He 
talks  to  us,  cracks  jokes  for  our  benefit  and  not 
for  the  amusement  of  his  proper  world.  He  does 
not  create  the  smallest  particle  of  illusion.  Miss 
Kyrle  Bellew  is,  on  the  other  hand,  in  the  most 
deadly  earnest.  She  is  apprehensive  of  her  part, 
which  is  a  sign  of  becoming  modesty,  but  her 
range  of  expression  is  small  and  her  acting 
generally  is  not  devoid  of  a  certain  quality  of 
lumpy  sadness — in  the  pastry  sense.  She  does  not 
appear  to  have  had  very  much  stage  experience, 
and  probably  a  succession  of  small  parts  would 
be  very  helpful  to  her.  At  present  she  has  no 
variety  of  expression  and  voice,  and  only  one 
gesture,  that  of  continually  picking  and  twisting 
her  fingers. 

243 


Alarums  and  Excursions 

Why  will  people  on  the  stage  endeavour  to 
persuade  us  that  they  are  French  by  talking 
broken  English?  It  is  as  though  a  white  actor 
should  try  to  convince  us  that  he  is  a  black  man 
by  saying  "  Massa  lago,  Othello  no  jealous,  no 
sah  !  "  Why  is  the  comic  fooling  of  the  French 
magistrate  and  commissaire  permitted  ?  They 
were  deplorable  figures  of  farce.  Why  should  a 
Frenchman  say  "  That  jumps  to  the  eyes  "  in  one 
minute,  and  then  show  himself  so  conversant  with 
idiomatic  English  as  to  talk  of  the  fat  being  in 
the  fire  the  next  ?  And  where  is  the  Roo 
Santonory  ? 

The  Storm. — .To  be  perfectly  fair  to  young 
actors  it  should  be  remembered  that  it  is  difficult 
for  them  to  go  beyond  their  allotted  scope.  In 
modern  plays  the  actors  are  not  asked  to  do 
more  than  behave  or  misbehave  as  their  proto- 
types may  be  observed  to  do  in  street  and 
restaurant.  They  are  asked  with  fantastic  rude- 
ness to  "  be  themselves."  In  The  Storm  Mr 
Bourchier  is  not  ordered  by  his  playwright  to 
•'  be  himself."  It  may  be  presumed  that  in  private 
life  this  actor  is  not  a  backwoodsman  ;  on  the 
stage  he  is  therefore  compelled  to  play  at  being 
one,  to  exercise  the  functions  of  his  craft.  In 
other  words,  in  this  play,  Mr  Bourchier  acts. 
It  may  be  presumed,  too,  that  Miss  Kyrle 
Bellew  is  not  the  daughter  of  a  French  squatter 
inhabiting  a  primeval  forest  in  the  far  North- 
West.  But  neither  is  she  the  cook  turned  grande 
244 


For  the  Purposes  of  Revenue 

amoureuse  of  another  play,  nor  the  young  lady  in 
the  melodrama  who  was  accustomed  to  being 
gagged  and  bound  at  spiritualistic  stances.  And 
yet  on  the  stage  there  is  not  an  atom  of  difference 
between  all  three  impersonations  except,  perhaps, 
that  the  actress  wears  different  dresses  and,  as 
a  Frenchwoman,  pronounces  "  lune "  as  though 
it  were  "loon,"  and  "plume"  as  though  it  were 
the  English  word  of  like  spelling.  (No  French- 
woman, whatever  her  education,  mispronounces 
her  vowels.)  Manette  is  "wild  and  primitive," 
says  somebody.  Actually  she  is  about  as  ab- 
original as  the  young  lady  of  the  milk  jug  in 
School.  She  cannot  conceive  why  the  villain 
should  enter  her  bedroom  at  dead  of  night,  but 
left  alone  with  the  rationless  hero  in  the  middle 
of  the  far  North-West,  what  she  asks  the  retriev- 
ing Redskin  to  send  them  is  not  food  but  a 
priest.  She  also  babbles  throughout  the  play  in 
the  third  person — "  Manette  lonely.  Manette  do 
what  big  man  tell  her,"  etc.  etc.  Critic  could 
have  wrung  Manette's  neck  with  pleasure. 

A  Safety  Match. — The  success  of  Mr  Ian  Hay's 
A  Safety  Match  at  the  Strand  should  give  the 
hypercritical  pause.  Your  highbrow  might  object 
that  to  provoke  a  colliery  accident  and  entomb 
half  the  cast  to  mend  a  lovers'  tiff,  is  to  use  an 
overwhelming  cause  to  produce  an  insignificant 
effect.  Or  that  only  fragile-minded  young  ladies 
consult  their  lapdogs  as  to  choice  of  husbands. 
Or  decamp  to  Egypt  when  the  little  brute  is  run 

245 


Alarums  and  Excursions 

over  and  the  big  brute  declines  to  send  to  town 
for  a  specialist.  Or  that  the  extra-large  ruffian, 
held  to  his  knees  by  Mr  Arthur  Bourchier's  com- 
pelling left  forefinger  whilst  that  doughty  gentle- 
man threatens  to  throw  two  more  ruffians  over 
the  balustrade  with  his  right,  is  not  really  trying. 
Or  that  not  even  popular  actors  rush  off  to  effect 
a  rescue  in  Number  X  cutting  without  first 
getting  out  of  their  evening  clothes.  But  there 
be  those  who  abandon  all  sense  of  foolishness 
when  they  enter  a  theatre,  and  it  is  perhaps  more 
blessed  to  rejoice  with  them  that  rejoice  than  to 
carp  at  the  cause  of  their  rejoicing.  So  Hay  ho, 
and  a  Hay  nonny  no ! 

Mr  R.  H.  Hignett's  picture  of  well-intentioned 
futility  is  admirable,  but  then  the  character  is 
admirably  drawn.  Miss  Ena  Grossmith  brings 
to  the  part  of  a  pert  little  vixen  a  keen  sense  of 
the  ridiculous,  some  feeling  for  the  stage  and  an 
inherited  trick  of  looking  sidelong  down  her  nose 
like  a  mediseval  saint  in  vicious  contemplation. 
She  reminded  me  of  the  virginal  Saint  Catherine 
ravished  by  the  posters  of  the  Palais  Royal. 
But  I  dislike  the  staging  of  the  enfant  detestable. 
The  wilful  throwing-over  of  all  beauty  and 
manners  in  favour  of  a  precocity  and  graceless- 
ness  both  physical  and  moral  must  necessarily 
constitute  a  bad  apprenticeship  for  the  young 
artist.     Caliban  and  not  Ariel  is  the  end. 

The  Prudes  Fall. — The  Prudes  Fall  is  exasper- 
ating. Mr  Rudolph  Besier  and  Miss  May 
246 


For  the  Purposes  of  Revenue 

Edington  have  spent  some  three  hours  in  drawing 
up  a  terrific  poser.  What  is  a  man  to  do  who 
forces  his  fiancee  to  become  his  mistress  without 
hope  of  marriage — this  to  punish  her  for  past 
social  snobbishness — when  he  finds  a  pistol 
levelled  at  him  by  a  second  lover,  who  gives  him 
five  minutes  to  clear  out  or  be  shot  ?  Well  there 
are  two  solutions  :  Either  [a)  to  clear  out,  or  (ft)  to 
be  shot.  What  he  must  not  do  is  to  produce 
a  special  licence  and  say  he  was  "only  pretend- 
ing." This  is  what  he  actually  does,  and  this  it 
is  which  suggests  that  the  play  is  only  fit  to  be 
performed  before  an  audience  of  babies  and 
people  who  have  no  interest  in  logic  and  sequence 
of  ideas.  The  play  covers  a  good  deal  of  weary, 
old  ground  in  the  usual  intellectually  dishonest 
fashion.  May  a  woman  who  has  "sinned" — I 
believe  that  is  the  jargon — eat  crumpets  in  the 
same  drawingf-room  as  the  Vicar's  wife  ?  Another 
woman  who  has  "sinned"  is  held  up  as  an  awful 
example  because  her  lover  died  and  left  her  with- 
out a  penny.  It  is  not  explained  why  this  should 
be  an  awful  warning  to  a  woman  with  obviously 
ten  thousand  a  year.  The  authors  miss  the 
whole  point  about  Society  women,  which  is  that 
they  don't  in  the  least  mind  receiving  a  woman 
who  has  kicked  over  the  traces.  What  they  are 
afraid  of  is  what  the  other  women  will  think  of 
them  if  they  do  receive  her. 

Mr  Du  Maurier  goes  through  his  part  exactly 
as  a  conjurer  goes  through  his  bag  of  tricks. 
But    then    this    actor    is    a   deft    and    admirable 

247 


Alarums  and  Excursions 

conjurer.  He  has  in  his  bag  a  little  passion  and 
a  little  restraint,  an  enormous  amount  of  charm, 
nonchalance,  imperturbability  when  he  is  in 
danger,  and  even  when  he  isn't.  But  the  part 
has  not  caused  the  actor  one  moment's  emotion 
or  thought.  It  came  out  of  his  bag  like  that 
because  Mr  Du  Maurier  is  that  sort  of  conjurer. 

The  Wandering  Jew. — If  you  hanker  after  a 
semi-Biblical  story,  a  darkened  stage,  incense, 
love-making  combined  with  mysticism  and  bun- 
kum, delights  of  apotheosis  and  a  glimpse  of 
Mr  Matheson  Lang;  roasting^  at  the  stake — then  in 
The  Wandering  Jew  you  have  your  heart's  desire. 
Personally,  I  like  mysticism  to  be  mysticism  and 
facts  facts,  and  can  make  little  of  a  gentleman 
who  wanders  the  earth  in  successive  incarnations, 
always  complaining  that  he  can't  die  and  yet 
having,  so  far  as  I  can  see,  a  thoroughly  good 
time  of  it.  I  am  not  moved  to  reverence  by  Mr 
E.  Temple  Thurston's  prose  style,  compounded 
half  of  St  Paul,  half  of  the  obituary  column,  freely 
seasoned  to  taste  with  Ella  Wheeler  Wilcox. 
There  is  no  vigour  here,  merely  slabs  of  common- 
place idea  smeared  over  with  second-hand  ex- 
pression. Mr  Matheson  Lang  takes  himself  with 
immense  seriousness,  but  so  did  the  late  Wilson 
Barrett  in  The  Sign  of  the  Cross.  His  perform- 
ance badly  needs  a  spark  or  two  of  humanity,  I 
suppose  I  must  not  say  of  humour.  He  used  to 
be  much  more  amusing  as  Mr  Wu. 

248 


For  the  Purposes  of  Revenue 

Daniel. — Misconduct  is  certainly  three  parts  of 
Daniel.  Daniel  is  a  sick  man  whose  malady  one 
instinctively  diagnoses  as  moral.  Harking  back 
to  Baudelaire,  Huysmans,  Jean  Lorrain  and  our 
own  Yellow  Book,  he  is  an  echo  of  the  greenery- 
yallery  heroes  of  the  nineties.  In  love  with  his 
brother's  wife,  he  proposes  to  die  in  aromatic 
pain  of  opium,  Chinese  idols,  black  velvet,  and 
the  whole  caboodle  of  decadent  flummery.  The 
plot  of  the  play  won't  bear  thinking  about  outside 
the  theatre,  and  won't  let  you  think  of  anything 
else  inside,  from  which  you  may  deduce  that  it  is 
a  very  good  plot  indeed.  It  would  not  be  sur- 
prising if  the  success  of  this  play  were  to  induce 
Sir  Arthur  Pinero  to  sit  up  and  take  theatrical 
notice  again.  Give  "our  foremost  playwright" 
the  daggers — that  is  to  say  the  bundle  of  com- 
promising letters,  the  dope-motive  and  the  self- 
sacrificing  noodle —  and  he  would  let  daylight 
into  these  dummies  as  well  as  another.  But  prob- 
ably none  of  Sir  Arthur's  lovers  would  make 
up  to  his  mistress  under  pretence  of  being  en- 
gaged to  that  lady's  little  sister  from  school. 
This  is  not  good  English  Pineroics  but  bad  French 
Pinerotics,  and  we  are  to  reflect  that  the  author 
could  not  help  being  born  a  Frenchman. 

The  Daniel  of  Mr  Claude  Rains  is  a  magni- 
ficent piece  of  decadent  nonsense  modelled  on 
the  text  of  A  Rehours,  the  frontispiece  to 
Monsieur  de  Phocas  and  the  jewelled  canvases 
of  Moreau.  That  the  actor  may  deny  these 
sources  of  inspiration  is  not  going  to  affect  the 

249 


Alarums  and  Excursions 

argument.  His  study  in  morbidity  has  just  that 
quality  of  unhealthy  radiance  which  Huysmans 
invented  for  the  sick  imaginings  of  Des  Esseintes, 
the  bloom  of  some  monstrous  tumour,  the  pattern 
of  some  corroding  cancer.  There  is  colour  in  it 
too,  the  fire  of  thwarted  rubies  as  well  as  the 
pallor  of  ineffectual  lilies.  In  the  sad  sweetness 
of  this  invalid  there  is  corruption.  If  Mr  Rains 
can  inform  any  heroic  or  even  respectable  char- 
acter with  half  the  beauty  he  imparts  to  this 
glowing  presentation  of  the  abnormal,  then  he  is 
a  good  actor.  Mr  Lyn  Harding  plays  the  bull- 
necked  husband  with  the  valiance  of  a  hundred 
beeves,  Mr  C.  Aubrey  Smith  the  raisonneur  with 
the  tact  of  a  hundred  Wyndhams.  Mr  Leslie 
Faber  and  Miss  Alexandra  Carlisle  are  as  good 
as  good  can  be.  Why  they  cut  out  Daniel's 
dying  speech  and  confession,  by  which  so  many 
Parisian  hearts  were  melted,  I  cannot  for  the  life 
of  me  imagine.  Did  they  not  trust  Mr  Rains  to 
play  the  woman  ?  Or  was  there  too  great  a 
danger  of  Daniel  bagging  the  lion's  share  ?  Let 
Mr  Rains  take  comfort.  He  played  everybody 
else  off  the  stage,  and  the  omission  of  Sarah 
Bernhardt's  great  scene  made  nonsense  of  the 
end  of  the  play.     This  was  first-class  poetic  justice. 

L'Epervier. — M.  Andre  Brul^  has  been  called 
the  matinee  idol  of  Paris.  This  is  a  libel. 
M.  Brule  is  a  fine  and  accomplished  actor.  He 
has  what  all  French  and  so  few  English  players 
possess — a  feeling  for  tone  and  rhythm.  The 
250 


For  the  Purposes  of  Revenue 

long  duel  between  him  and  Mademoiselle  Made- 
leine Lely  in  the  second  act  could  be  listened  to 
with  pleasure  even  by  people  ignorant  of  French  ; 
these  actors  deliver  the  cut  and  thrust  as 
though  it  were  part- writing  for  the  voice.  They 
have  a  feeling  for  words  and  a  sense  of  their 
proper  balance ;  gesture,  intonation  and  emotion 
are  naturally  related  and  not  spikily  super- 
imposed, as  is  our  way.  When  an  English  jeune 
preynier  has  to  deal  with  a  sentence  longer  than 
"  Not  so  much  sand,  boy  I  "  or  "  Niblick,  please  !  " 
he  is  hopelessly  at  sea,  whereas  M.  Brul6  can 
managfe  the  surg^e,  roll  and  sfroundswell.  Made- 
moiselle  Lely  does  nothing  badly,  but  nothing 
particularly  well,  and  her  fussy,  well-intentioned 
Countess  is  not  a  patch  on  the  taut,  emotional 
impersonation  of  Mademoiselle  Vera  Sergine, 
who  played  the  part  in  Paris.  She  wears  beauti- 
ful but  inappropriate  gowns.  Seen  from  the 
stalls  they  are  indistinguishable,  all  fringes  and 
frippery,  without  line.  It  is  really  rather  absurd 
to  take  a  broken-down,  penniless  lover,  not  to  a 
bosom  of  repentance,  but  to  a  silly  little  tippet 
and  muff  And  not  very  far  short  of  nonsense  to 
talk  emigration  in  mid-winter  in  a  skirt  half-way 
to  the  floor. 

The  plot  of  this  French  play  is  interesting  in 
the  light  it  throws  on  comparative  morality.  A 
gentleman  cheats  at  cards  for  his  living,  being 
driven  thereto  by  want.  Want,  he  explains,  con- 
sists in  the  absence  of  real  money  ;  his  wife's 
jewels  being  worth  no  more  than  eleven  hundred 

251 


Alarums  and  Excursions 

thousand  francs — roughly,  when  the  play  was 
written,  about  ^44,000.  So  he  forces  his  wife  to 
cheat  too.  She  falls  in  love  with  another  young- 
gentleman  and  decides  to  cheat  no  more.  They 
go  away  together  ;  the  husband  takes  to  drugs, 
and,  no  longer  playing  at  the  card-table,  is  re- 
duced to  want.  It  appears  that  he  only  cheated 
for  his  wife's  sake  and  because  he  loved  her.  So 
she  comes  back  to  her  husband,  and  together 
they  go  out  to  manage  an  ostrich  farm,  or  some- 
thing of  the  sort,  at  a  salary  of  some  four  thousand 
a  year  provided  by  a  charitable  millionaire.  So 
we  see  that,  in  France,  it  is  moral  for  a  husband 
to  cheat  at  cards,  provided  he  does  it  for  love  ; 
and  moral  for  a  wife  to  run  away,  provided  she 
runs  back  agrain.  M.  Brule  made  these  unrealities 
intensely  exciting  and  pathetic.  I  cannot  im- 
agine any  of  our  matinee  idols  who  would  not 
have  been  just  silly. 

A  Matter  of  Fact. — Compare  the  Englishman's 
favourite  method  of  writing  a  play  which  shall  be 
moral,  instructive,  amusing  and  anodynous.  He 
begins  by  taking  a  problem  to  which  there  can  by 
no  possibility  be  a  happy  ending,  and  then  pro- 
ceeds to  find  one  by  a  system  which  I  shall  call 
the  "ail-along"  system.  A  young  gentleman 
from  Eton  wants  to  marry  a  heathen  Chinee. 
So  discovers  that  the  maiden  "ail-along"  was  no 
Chinee  at  all,  but  a  kidnapped  English  peeress 
in  her  own  right.  A  scoundrel  forces  a  woman 
to  run  off  with  him  to  social  perdition,  with  the 
252 


For  the  Purposes  of  Revenue 

result  that  a  pistol  is  put  to  his  head.  He  pulls 
out  a  brace  of  marriage  lines  to  prove  that  "ail- 
along  "  he  never  meant  it.  What  is  a  baronet's 
wife  to  do  who  discovers  that  her  daughter  is 
engaged  to  marry  a  young  man  whom  she  had 
the  misfortune  to  bring-  into  the  world  before  she 
met  the  baronet  ?  Does  she  take  a  tip  from  the 
Valkyrie  and  say  nothing  ?  Does  she  tell  her 
daughter,  her  son,  her  husband,  her  best  friend 
and  then  commit  a  decent,  unavailing  suicide  ? 
In  ^  Matter  of  Fact  the  poor  lady  tells  pretty 
well  everybody,  only  to  find  that  the  boy  wasn't 
her  son  after  all  and,  therefore,  "ail-along"  never 
had  been.  So  the  world  wags,  and  so  we  think 
ourselves  a  nation  of  playwrights. 

The  Great  Lover — The  theme  of  The  Great 
Lover  is  the  old  one  of  the  actor  and  the  artistic 
temperament.  The  play  deals  not  with  the 
genuine  artist  but  with  the  mountebank  and 
charlatan  who  dog  their  divine  brother.  The 
plot  of  the  play  is  taken  from  that  ridiculous 
world  of  impresarios,  prima  and  secunda  donnas, 
Italian  tenors  exhaling  infamy  and  garlic.  Press- 
agents,  hangers-on,  clowns  and  drabs.  Tawdry 
love-affairs  jostle  absurd  susceptibilities ;  pro- 
miscuity, greed  and  vanity  are  rife  ;  the  mentality 
current  is  that  of  a  child  of  four.  The  zany  in 
the  garb  of  genius.  "  These  artists  deceive  them- 
selves. Perched  upon  their  high  horse,  they  still 
believe  their  feet  touch  earth.  They  juggle  with 
a  show  of  innocence,   vanity  is   in  their  blood  ; 

253 


Alarums  and  Excursions 

they  are  born  into  this  world  clowns  and  braggarts, 
extravagant  in  outlook  as  a  Chinese  vase  ;  they 
are  capable  even  of  self-mockery.  Conti  will 
have  you  believe  that  he  is  heaven-inspired,  that 
for  him  art  is  sacred  and  sacrosanct.  His 
eloquence  seems  to  spring  from  deep  conviction  ; 
his  scorn  of  Society  is  sublime.  He  is  prophet, 
demon,  angel,  deity.  Yet  this  Southerner's 
ardent  spirit  is  dank  as  the  bottom  of  a  well.  To 
hear  him,  the  artist  is  a  disciple,  art  a  religion 
with  its  priests  and  martyrs.  Once  launched 
upon  his  theme  he  will  out-belch  a  German 
philosopher.  You  admire  his  convictions — yet  he 
has  none.  You  soar  with  him  to  some  seventh 
heaven — yet,  enfolding  you  in  a  look  of  ecstasy 
and  cocking  an  eye  at  your  beatitude,  he  is 
wondering  :   '  Am  I  their  God  ?  '  " 

This  is  Balzac  three-quarters  of  a  century  ago  ; 
he  could  not  better  have  described  the  Jean 
Paurel  of  this  play.  I  have  not  for  many  years 
seen  so  faithful  a  portrait  nor  so  clever  a  piece  of 
comic  acting  as  this  of  Moscovitch.  This  senti- 
mental gormandiser  wears  his  appetite  on  his 
sleeve  ;  his  accent  and  his  intonations  betray  his 
origin,  his  temper,  his  cast  of  thought.  But  this 
is  bare  competence.  You  feel  that  you  must 
catalogue  the  fine  beauties  that  go  to  make  up 
the  great  actor — the  nobility  of  pose,  the  carriage, 
the  courage — almost  you  might  say  the  pluck 
of  a  horse.  Here  is  mettle  to  try  a  tragic  fall, 
and  you  go  back  in  your  mind  to  the  wonder- 
ful   gestures,     their    wealth    and    number,    now 

254 


For  the  Purposes  of  Revenue 

elucidating,  now  reinforcing,  now  eloquent  on  their 
own  account.  Mr  Moscovitch  is  a  born  actor 
— a  vastly  different  thing  from  that  poor  affair, 
the  made  one.  He  has  no  Saxon  inhibitions. 
He  talks  as  a  foreigner  talks,  with  every  organ 
of  the  body.  He  has  power,  pathos  and  humour, 
but  then  so  has  every  little  Italian  musico. 
There  are  hundreds  of  Paurels  ;  Moscovitch  is 
like  them  all.  Acting  is  an  affair  of  the  blood  ; 
it  is  in  every  foreign  race.  I  do  not  know  this 
particular  actor's  nationality.  This  is  the  first 
time  I  have  seen  him,  but  judging  not  so  much 
from  this  performance  as  from  its  implications  he 
is  a  great  comic  actor.  He  is  a  trifle  stagey,  they 
say.     Well,  heaven  be  thanked  ! 

The  Grain  of  Mustard  Seed. — "As  for  jest," 
writes  the  great  essayist,  "  there  be  certain  things 
which  ought  to  be  privileged  from  it  ;  namely, 
Religion,  Matters  of  State,  Great  Persons,  any 
man's  present  business  of  importance  .  .  .  ;  yet 
there  be  some  that  think  their  wits  have  been 
asleep,  except  they  dart  out  somewhat  that  is 
piquant,  and  to  the  quick  ;  that  is  a  vein  which 
should  be  bridled."  The  wit  of  The  Grain  of 
Mustard  Seed  had  been  the  better  for  a  bridle, 
though  there  is  so  little  of  this  commodity  in  the 
theatre  to-day  that  the  temptation  is  to  give  it  its 
head.  The  conflict  lies  between  the  idealism  of 
a  private  member  and  the  opportunism  of  a 
cabinet  of  trimmers.  We  are  to  believe  that 
such    of  our    politicians   as    are    not    fools    must 

^55 


Alarums  and  Excursions 

necessarily  be  knaves.  Now  the  statement  that 
"those  who  choose  their  time  well  are  called 
statesmen  ;  those  who  choose  it  badly  are  called 
traitors,"  is  both  cynical  and  untrue.  No  poli- 
tician ever  ruled  this  country — Disraeli  magnifi- 
cently excepted,  but  he  was  a  Jew,  and  therefore 
had  genius — who  did  not  possess  at  least  the 
quality  of  self-deception,  the  faculty  of  holding 
one  opinion  on  Monday  and  its  opposite  on 
Tuesday,  and  both  at  white  heat  and  with  the 
utmost  fury  of  conviction.  That  is  what  makes 
politics  so  amusing.  Mr  Harwood's  picture  of 
a  lick-spittle  Prime  Minister  consciously  blowing 
hot  and  cold,  of  a  leader  of  the  House  furtively 
hedging  like  some  queasy  bookmaker,  of  a  cretin, 
and  an  idealist  whose  political  faith  is  bred  of 
his  belief  in  a  baby  food — has  the  author  never 
heard  of  Tono- Bungay  and  the  kind  of  conviction 
quackery  inspires  ?  —  all  these  preposterous 
caricatures  will  not  do  ;  not  even  as  satire. 
These  are  not  politicians  as  we  know  them,  nor 
as  we  are  willing  to  laugh  at  them.  They  are 
the  sweepings  of  a  Westminster  Bridge  omnibus. 
All  this  would  not  matter  if  the  play  were  full 
of  brilliant,  heady  nonsense  or  meaty,  satisfying 
talk.  The  suggestion  has  been  made  that  it 
contains  epigrams  to  outwit  Congreve,  Sheridan, 
and  the  rest.  One  cannot,  perhaps,  do  better 
than  quote.  "  Imagination  is  what  fellows  have 
who  write  for  the  papers."  "  I'd  rather  go  to 
hell  on  my  own  feet  than  be  wheeled  to  heaven 
in  a  perambulator."  "A  boa-constrictor  does  a 
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For  the  Purposes  of  Revenue 

lot  of  swallowing  before  it  swallows  a  sheep !  " 
Shades  of  Sheridan  and  Wilde,  and  very  present 
spirits  of  Sir  J.  M.  Barrie  and  Mr  Shaw!  The 
truth  of  the  matter  is  that  we  moderns  too  easily 
lose  our  heads.  As  soon  as  a  playwright  aims 
higher  than  mere  horse-play  he  is  hailed  as  a 
master  of  wit,  or  kind  of  super-Grock  ;  which  is 
as  much  as  to  say  that  everything  which  is  not 
written  by  a  scullery-maid  must  of  necessity 
be  letters,  and  good  letters  into  the  bargain. 
Moliere  tried  his  comedies  on  his  cook,  but  we 
are  not  told  that  he  got  her  to  turn  Alceste's 
phrases  for  him.  "  C'est  n'estimer  rien  qu'estimer 
tout  le  monde."  You  cheapen  the  world  of 
letters  when  you  put  Jack  on  a  level  with  the 
great  masters. 

The  great  defect  of  the  play  is  that  whereas  the 
main  issue  is  political  satire,  the  interest  of  the 
audience  is  allowed  to  devolve  upon  an  irrelevant 
problem  of  sentiment.  What  is  an  elderly  man 
to  do  whose  fiancde  tells  him  that  she  engaged 
herself  to  him  for  his  money  and  that  she  has 
been  the  mistress  of  a  younger  man  ?  Mr 
Norman  McKinnel,  the  political  frog  who  would 
a-wooing  go,  had  a  difficult  problem  to  solve,  and 
he  solved  it  by  just  not  dealing  with  it.  Always 
so  good  in  a  fighting  part,  he  was  not  allowed 
stomach  for  this  particular  fray.  You  expected 
him  to  round  on  the  lady  with  some  little  remark 
about  roasting  her  in  sulphur.  But,  no!  Mr 
Harwood  leaves  Mr  McKinnel  without  a  word. 
The  stage  direction  may  be  that  the  actor's  eyes 
R  257 


Alarums  and  Excursions 

should  burst  from  their  sockets.  But  we  are  not 
to  know  this,  and  the  actor  stands  stock-still  in 
flabbergasted  contemplation  of  sun,  moon  and 
stars  fallen  amazingly  about  him.  He  has  even 
forgotten  all  about  the  election,  which  was  the 
main  issue  of  the  play.  He  waves  the  figures 
aside  ;  they  should  have  voted  hereafter.  The 
problem  as  to  what  the  elderly  gentleman  should 
do  is  left  unsolved.  "There  you  'ave  me!" — 
the  remark  of  the  chauffeur  in  the  play — seemed 
to  be  the  popular  solution. 


25B 


A  Happy   Commentator 

For  if  the  king  like  not  the  comedy, 
Why  then,  belike,  he  likes  it  not,  perdy. 
Hainlct,  Actiii.,  sc.  2. 

ON  a  late  summer  evening  in  Cornwall  I 
came  across  one  of  those  man-made 
institutions  to  which  all  that  is  glorious 
in  sun,  sky,  sea,  fisher-smack  and  fisher-folk  must 
in  the  mind  of  the  bookish  give  place — a  musty 
village  book-shop.  The  dealer  in  other  men's 
brains,  criminal  at  second-hand,  accessory  after  the 
publisher's  fact,  had  the  tact  not  to  push  his  wares. 
With  a  wave  of  his  hand  he  made  me  free  of 
the  shop  and  stood,  the  only  other  occupant,  his 
nose  buried  in  a  pile  of  books,  an  unusual  attitude 
for  a  dealer  therein.  After  considerable  sidelong 
scrutiny  and  persuaded  that  I  had  come  not  to 
chatter  but  to  browse,  he  raised  his  head  and, 
indicating  a  pile  of  well-preserved  books,  broke 
silence.  "  A  gentleman's  library,"  he  vouchsafed. 
"  Bought  it  this  afternoon  as  it  stood.  Mostly 
first  editions.  A  gentleman  to  look  at  him. 
And  understood  books  to  look  at  them."  I 
glanced  at  the  pile  incuriously  enough.  One 
knows  those  "gentlemen's  libraries,"  unadven- 
turous  bundles  of  Scott,  Dickens,  Thackeray,  the 
Brontes,  George  Eliot,  a  hundred  and  twenty 
"safe"  volumes,  with  never  an  indiscretion, 
never  a  rampageous  book  that  might,  at  some 
visitor's  knock,  have  to  be  tucked  into  the 
back  of  the  sofa.  Equally  one  knows  those 
miasmatic,  emasculated  collections,  scandals  long- 
laid  to  rest  and  now  piggishly  uprooted,  which  are 
the  bed-books  of  the  modern  petit-maitre. 

259 


Alarums  and  Excursions 

This  collection  was  after  neither  of  these  kinds, 
but  remarkable  in  two  ways.  Not  only  was  it 
composed  of  books  proper  to  a  gentleman's 
library,  but  it  contained  none  improper  thereto. 
By  "gentleman"  I  mean  one  who  to  his  dying 
day  will  take  in  The  Field.  The  late  owner 
had,  apparently,  bought  his  Hardys,  Merediths, 
Kiplings,  Moores  and  so  on  as  they  came  out,  had 
read  and  inwardly  digested  them.  But  what  is  to 
my  immediate  purpose  is  that  he  had  outwardly 
marked  one  of  them,  an  entertaining,  pragmatical 
book  by  a  great  writer.  I  do  not  think  I  should 
have  been  bullied  into  buying  all  this  library, 
useless  duplication  of  volumes  at  home,  had  it  not 
been  for  The  Author  s  Craft.  It  has  always  been 
a  fancy  of  mine  that  there  are  holes  in  every  great 
man's  armour.  Nemo  mortalium  omnibus  horis 
sapit,  as  the  Royal  and  Ancient  Order  of  Buffaloes 
reminds  us.^  This  particular  annotator  would 
appear  to  have  discovered  that  not  even  Mr 
Arnold  Bennett  is  at  all  hours  wise,  to  have  put 
his  eyes  to  some  hard-perceived  chinks  in  the 
shining  mail  and  to  have  rammed  his  pencil  home. 
Clap-trap,  mon  bon  Arnauld !  was  too  enticing. 

All  or  none  was  the  bookseller's  ultimatum, 
and  wanting  the  Bennett  as  I  did,  I  became  the 
possessor  of  this  little  "gentleman's  library."  I 
sold  all  the  first  editions  and  replaced  those  I 
had  not  by  commoner  copies,  with  the  result  that 
an  excellent  holiday  cost  next  to  nothing.      Under 

^  I   am  betraying  no  secret.     He  who  runs  into  his  publican's  may  read  the 
motto  for  himself,  in  framed  "  sustificate  "  hanging  on  the  snuggery  wall. 

260 


A  Happy  Commentator 

my  bed  are  dozens  of  remainder  copies  of  first 
editions  of  an  author  too  little  known.  Would  it 
be  sound  economics  to  burn  them  in  the  hopes 
of  a  demand  for  an  odd  volume  provoking  the 
publisher  to  a  second  impression? 

I  had  always  looked  upon  The  Author  s  Craft  as 
an  excellent  book,  with  at  least  thirty-two  ounces 
of  common-sense  to  the  pound.  Again  in  com- 
plete agreement  did  I  read  the  early  pages, 
including,  on  page  2,7,  the  passage  :  "  And  you 
can  see  primitive  novelists  to  this  day  transmitting 
to  acquaintances  their  fragmentary  and  crude 
visions  of  life  in  the  cafe  or  the  club,  or  on  the 
curbstone.  They  belong  to  the  lowest  circle  of 
artists  ;  and  the  form  that  they  adopt  is  the  very 
basis  of  the  novel.  By  innumerable  entertaining 
steps  from  them  you  may  ascend  to  the  major 
artists  whose  vision  of  life,  inclusive,  intricate 
and  intense,  requires  for  its  due  transmission  the 
great  traditional  form  of  the  novel  as  perfected 
by  the  masters  of  a  long  age  which  has  tempor- 
arily set  the  novel  higher  than  any  other  art 
form."  With  what  consternation  then,  did  I  read 
in  the  margin  :  The  first  idea  in  this  hook  worth 
recording.  Again  on  page  40,  I  read  :  "  Wher- 
ever the  novel  ought  to  stand  in  the  hierarchy 
of  forms,  it  has,  actually,  no  rival  at  the  present 
day  as  a  means  for  transmitting  the  impassioned 
vision  of  life.  It  is,  and  will  be  for  some  time  to 
come,  the  form  to  which  the  artist  with  the  most 
inclusive  vision  instinctively  turns,  because  it  is 
the  most  inclusive  form,  and  the  most  adaptable. 

261 


Alarums  and  Excursions 

Indeed,  before  we  are  much  older,  if  its  present 
rate  of  progress  continues,  it  will  have  reoccupied 
the  dazzling  position  to  which  the  mighty  Balzac 
lifted  it,  and  in  which  he  left  it  in  1850.  So 
much,  by  the  way,  for  the  rank  of  the  novel." 
Only  to  be  dashed  in  my  appreciation  by  the 
comment :  Forty  pages  to  get  to  this  hoary  truth. 
God  forgive  the  author  I  ^ 

Mr  Bennett  continues  :  "  A  great  novelist  must 
have  great  qualities  of  mind.  His  mind  must 
be  sympathetic,  quickly  responsive,  courageous, 
honest,  humorous,  tender,  just,  merciful.  He 
must  be  able  to  conceive  the  ideal  without  losing 
sight  of  the  fact  that  it  is  a  human  world  we  live 
in."  To  this  is  attached  a  discouraging :  This 
might  have  been  written  by  a  professor  of  English 
in  a  seminary  for  the  Daughters  of  Gentlemen. 
Lower  down  on  the  page  :  "  Above  all,  the 
novelist's  mind  must  be  permeated  and  controlled 
by  common-sense.  His  mind,  in  a  word,  must 
have  the  quality  of  being  noble.  Unless  his 
mind  is  all  this,  he  will  never,  at  the  ultimate 
bar,  be  reckoned  supreme."  This,  too,  is  damned  : 
Whoever  found  platitude  more  perfectly  expressed? 
My  unknown  commentator  dissents  from  the 
verdict  on  Thackeray,  "whose  mind  was  some- 
what incomplete  for  so  grandiose  a  figure,  and 

^  I  know  of  only  one  other  instance  of  comment  as  blasting  as  this. 
It  occurs  in  a  second-hand  copy,  picked  up  in  the  Charing  Cross  Road, 
of  a  handbook  purporting  to  elucidate  the  Einstein  theory  of  relativity. 
On  the  last  page,  in  a  firm,  decided  handwriting,  are  the  words:  '*  Pure 
nonsense  !  "  to  which  initials  and  a  date  lend  a  charming  air  of  finality. 
But  I  should  dearly  like  to  know  whether  this  little  outburst  is  the  result 
of  mathematical  conviction  or  of  High  Church  irritation  at  such  a  breaking 
in  upon  woolly  rapture. 

262 


A  Happy  Commentator 

not  free  from  defects  which  are  inimical  to 
immortaHty,"  Ah  I  hut  think  of  Esmond,  the 
Great  Emotional  Autumn!  On  the  other  hand, 
"  What  undermines  the  renown  of  Dickens  is  the 
growing  conviction  that  the  texture  of  his  mind 
was  common,  that  he  fell  short  in  courageous  facing 
of  the  truth,  and  in  certain  delicacy  of  perception," 
finds  the  commentator  in  full  agreement. 

It  is  amusing  to  hold  the  scales  between  author 
and  commentator  and,  on  the  whole,  I  am  inclined 
to  think  that  it  is  the  former  who  comes  off  the 
better.  "  Balzac  was  a  prodigious  blunderer. 
He  could  not  even  manage  a  sentence,  not  to 
speak  of  the  general  form  of  a  book.  And 
as  for  a  greater  than  Balzac — Stendhal — his 
scorn  of  technique  was  notorious.  Stendhal  was 
capable  of  writing,  in  a  masterpiece :  '  By  the 
way  I  ought  to  have  told  you  earlier  that  the 
Duchess  .  .  .'  As  for  a  greater  than  either 
Balzac  or  Stendhal — Dostoievsky — what  a  hasty, 
amorphous  lump  of  gold  is  the  sublime,  the 
unapproachable  Brothers  Karamazov !  "  This  is 
first-class  criticism  and  is  not  demolished  by  the 
marginal:  Oh,  fief  Arnold  Bennett !  "  And  when 
we  come  to  consider  the  great  technicians,  Guy 
de  Maupassant  and  Flaubert,  can  we  say  that 
their  technique  will  save  them,  or  atone  in  the 
slightest  degree  for  the  defects  of  their  minds  ? 
Exceptional  artists  both,  they  are  both  now  in- 
evitably falling  in  esteem  to  the  level  of  the 
second-rate.  Human  nature  being  what  it  is, 
and    Guy    de     Maupassant    being    tinged    with 

263 


Alarums  and  Excursions 

eroticism,  his  work  is  sure  to  be  read  with 
interest  by  mankind .  but  he  is  already  classed. 
Nobody,  now,  despite  all  his  brilliant  excellences, 
would  dream  of  putting  de  Maupassant  with  the 
first  magnitudes.  And  the  declension  of  Flaubert 
is  one  of  the  outstanding  phenomena  of  modern 
French  criticism."  This,  thanks  be  to  all  the 
critical  gods,  is  justly  punctated  with  a  three-fold  : 
Mon  Dieu!  Pauvre  ami!  and  Le  style,  c'est 
I'homme,  mon  bon  Arnaulci!  However,  on  the 
next  page:  "Assuredly  no  great  artist  was 
ever  a  profound  scholar.  The  great  artist  has 
other  ends  to  achieve."  This  is  marked : 
Good!  Good!  The  real  Bennett  at  last,  and  the 
rest  of  the  chapter  has  the  note  :  Oh!  how  fine! 

Half-way  through  the  little  volume  our  com- 
mentator becomes  a  trifle  disjointed,  as  though 
he  were  following  not  so  much  the  text  as  a 
thesis  of  his  own.  There  are  some  illuminative 
flashes.  Hugo's  is  an  "event-plot"  of  the  most 
beastly  type !  Naturalism  was  discovered  by  Zola 
and  is  as  dead  as  mutton;  Compton  Mackenzie 
survives!  /,  too,  have  for  years  said  that  first- 
class  fiction  must  be  in  its  final  resort  autobio- 
graphical, but  none  would  believe  me!  And  then 
the  markings  and  the  underlinings  peter  out  and 
it  looks  as  though  our  unknown  friend  had  not 
persevered.  But  half-a-dozen  pages  from  the  end 
we  are  reassured,  most  joyously.  For  there,  in 
reference  to  a  possible  novel  by  Pinero,  is  the 
lambent:  Good  God!  What  comment  to  make 
on  this  happiest  of  commentators ! 

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